The 

Humorous  Speaker 


A  BOOK  OF  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS  FOR 
READING  AND  SPEAKING 


I 

Compi         nd  Edited  by 

PAUL    M.   PEARSON 

Editor  of  "The  Speu*:r"  "The  Most  Popular  Selections 

for  Reading  and  Speakirg"  "Intercollegiate  Debates;" 

Professor  of  Public  \*  taking,  Swarthmore  College 


HINDS,    HAYDEN    &    ELDREDGE,    INC. 

NEW  YORK  PHILADELPHIA  CHICAGO 


COPYRIGHT,  1909 

BY 
HINDS,  NOBLE  &  ELDREDGE 

Al 


* 


INTRODUCTION. 

ZlTELLA    COCKE. 

From  an  article  in  The  New  England  Magazine.  By 
special  permission  of  the  publishers. 

THE   UTILITY  OF   HUMOR. 

WHATEVER  may  be  urged  against  ridicule  or 
humorous  invective,  the  wholesome  effect  of  legiti- 
mate humor  and  merriment  cannot  be  denied,  and 
Sterne  was  clearly  in  the  right  when  he  said  that  a 
taste  for  humor  was  a  gift  from  Heaven.  It  is  a 
blessing,  a  very  angel  of  consolation,  without  whose 
presence  the  thorny,  briary  path  in  this  workaday 
world  would  be  uncheered.  In  the  legend  of  Pan- 
dora's box  we  are  told  that  Hope  was  left  at  the 
bottom,  as  a  compensation  for  the  many  ills  to 
which  poor  humanity  is  heir,  but  I  think  the  most 
efficient  and  the  most  ready  anodyne  is  a  sense  of 
humor.  Hope  is  indeed  an  inspiration  and  often 
a  salvation,  yet  the  promise  it  offers  is  too  often 
broken,  while  Humor  presents  an  immediate  solace 
— a  real  and  present  help  in  time  of  discouragement 
and  despondency.  Let  but  the  unhappy  victim 
have  the  prehensibles  by  which  to  seize  upon  the 
proffered  good,  and  he  is  assured  of  a  temporary, 
if  not  a  final  reprieve.  In  the  annals  of  English 

I)  I  I       . 


.:v  ,  /  INTRODUCTION. 

Court  history  we  read  that  a  crown  was  paid  to  one 
who  had  succeeded  in  making  the  king,  Edward  II., 
laugh — a  medicine  which  was  doubtless  more  valu- 
able and  efficacious  than  a  dozen  prescriptions  from 
the  pharmacopoeia.  A  hearty  laugh  is  medicinal 
and  remedial,  and  Hippocrates  believed  and  de- 
clared that  a  physician  should  possess  a  ready 
humor  as  a  part  of  the  equipment  for  healing,  and 
Galen  informs  us  that  Esculapius  himself  wrote 
comedies  and  commanded  them  to  be  read  to  his 
patients  for  the  promotion  of  a  healthful  circula- 
tion of  the  blood.  A  noted  physician  of  Richmond, 
Virginia,  Dr.  Robert  Coleman,  whose  success  was 
eminent,  was  said  to  have  accomplished  as  many 
cures  by  his  wit  and  humor  as  by  the  drugs  he  pre- 
scribed. His  entrance  into  a  sick-chamber  brought 
an  atmosphere  of  cheerfulness,  which  assisted  the 
receptivity  of  the  patient,  and,  to  quote  the  homely 
comparison  of  Mother  Hubbard's  dog,  many  a 
friend  who  left  a  sick  one  with  the  thought  that 
nothing  more  was  needed  but  a  coffin,  returned  to 
find  him  laughing  and  on  the  highway  to  recovery. 
The  world  is  not  without  illustrious  examples  and 
advocates  of  the  excellence  and  benefit  of  a  hearty 
laugh.  The  emperor  Titus  insisted  that  he  had 
lost  a  day  if  he  had  passed  it  without  laughing,  and 
Chamfort  was  accustomed  to  tell  his  friends  that 
the  most  utterly  useless  and  lost  of  all  days  was 
the  one  upon  which  he  had  not  laughed. 


INTRODUCTION.  v 

\. 

THE   MAN    WHO   LAUGHS. 

How  naturally  are  we  attracted  to  the  man  who 
laughs  genuinely,  and  laughs,  too,  in  the  right  place ! 
His  character  is  indexed  at  once:  we  know  where 
to  find  him — the  honest  laugh  does  not  emanate 
from  the  scoundrel.  A  man  may  smile  and  be  a 
villain  still,  and  may  laugh  grimly  and  sardonically, 
or  the  loud,  unsympathizing,  unmeaning  laugh  may 
betray  the  vacant  mind;  but  the  laughter  which 
rings  with  genuineness  and  appreciation  is  the 
catholic  note  of  sympathy,  culture,  and  integrity. 
And  what  a  teacher  is  well-timed  wit,  or  genuine 
humor!  How  it  punctures  the  bladder  of  conceit, 
pretense,  and  hypocrisy!  But,  unlike  those  of  wit, 
the  shafts  of  humor  wound  to  heal,  and  heal  with- 
out leaving  a  scar.  There  is  nothing,  says  Sydney 
Smith,  of  which  your  pompous  gentlemen  -are  so 
much  afraid  as  a  little  humor.  How  often  a  bloated 
mass  of  self-complacency  and  ignorance  is  reduced 
to  insignificance  by  the  genial  rays  of  wholesome 
humor!  Says  an  eminent  English  author:  "I  will 
find  you  twenty  men  who  will  write  you  systems  of 
metaphysics  over  which  the  world  shall  yawn  and 
doze  and  sleep,  and  pronounce  their  authors  oracles 
of  wisdom,  for  one  who  can  trifle,  like  Shakespeare, 
and  teach  the  truest  philosophy  when  he  seems  to 
trifle  most." 

STUPIDITY    AND    WISDOM. 

General  biography  offers  ample  testimony  to  the 
fact  that  a  sense  of  humor  is  a  feature  of  great 
minds ;  hence  Locke's  argument  that  wit  and  humor 


Vi  INTRODUCTION. 

are  not  ordinarily  accompanied  with  judgment  well 
deserves  the  stigma  put  upon  it  by  Sterne,  who 
says  that  ever  since  its  pronouncement  it  has  been 
made  the  Magna  Charta  of  stupidity.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  would  seem  that  among  the  greatest  minds 
the  sense  of  humor  never  faileth.  And  why  should 
it  not  be  so?  Since  humor  is  the  result  of  an  un- 
expected fitness  or  incongruity  observed  either  in 
the  world  without  or  in  association  of  ideas  within, 
acting  upon  a  mind  qualified  to  appreciate  this  fit- 
ness or  incongruity,  it  is  to  be  expected  that  keen 
and  powerful  intellects  should  not  be  wanting  in 
this  qualification.  That  great  powers  of  acquisition 
and  absorption  can  and  do  exist  without  this  sense 
is  hardly  denied,  but  its  absence  is  strangely  incom- 
patible with  the  grasp  or  sensitivity  of  genius.  It 
is  equally  true,  as  Amiel  says,  of  wit,  that  while 
humor  is  useful  for  everything,  it  is  sufficient  for 
nothing.  Jt  is  the  wine  and  good  cheer  of  life,  not 
its  food  or  sustenance. 

HUMOR  AND  INTELLIGENCE. 

And  as  humor  inhabits  the  strongest  intellects 
of  all,  so,  too,  it  belongs  to  minds  of  finest  quality. 
The  great  masters  of  pathos  have  been  endowed 
with  the  finest  humor—- 
There's not  a  string  attuned  to  mirth, 
But  has  its  cord  in  melancholy, 

and  we  know  that  one,  greater  than  Hood,  that 
unparagoned  master-mind  in  tragedy  and  comedy, 
and  in  the  sublimest  poetry  of  all  time,  dealt  with 
the  pathetic  and  the  humorous  as  no  author  has 


INTRODUCTION.  y\{ 

done  before  or  since;  and  the  more  we  study  his 
production  the  more  we  realize  that  no  brain 
could  have  created  Hamlet  and  Lady  Macbeth,  and 
no  heart  could  have  held  the  woe  of  King  Lear  and 
the  sorrow  of  Ophelia,  but  the  brain  and  heart 
which  had  the  unquenchable  elasticity  of  Falstaff 
and  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  and  the  humor 
which  portrayed  Polonius  and  Malvolio. 
NONSENSE. 

Our  papers  and  books  abound  with  spurious 
humor,  and,  paradoxical  as  it  may  appear,  this 
charge  cannot  be  laid  to  the  nonsense  books  which 
constitute  a  real  contribution  to  the  pleasure  of 
nations.  Ruskin  pronounced  Edward  Lear's  "Book 
of  Nonsense"  as  most  beneficent  and  innocent,  and 
I  confess  I  do  not  admire  the  taste  of  the  man 
who  does  not  find  the  lyric  entitled  "The  Owl  and 
the  Pussy-Cat"  delicious.  The  wisest  men  ought 
to  relish  such  nonsense,  and  I  think  they  do,  and 
Lord  Chatham  uttered  the  words  of  wisdom  when 
he  said:  "Don't  talk  to  me  about  sense.  I  want 
to  know  if  a  man  can  talk  nonsense!" — and  to  be 
able  to  write  delightful  nonsense  is  a  gift  not  to 
be  despised  by  any  who  know  Lear,  Gilbert,  and 
Burnand,  or  have  ever  read  "Nonsense  Botany," 
which  humorous  production  ought  to  cure  the 
severest  attack  of  the  dismals. 

American  humor  lies  chiefly  in  exaggeration, 
although  Mrs.  Partington's  account  of  the  "two 
buckles  on  her  lungs,"  and  her  views  of  an  "un- 


yiii  INTRODUCTION. 

scrupulous  Providence,"  and  willingness  to  attend 
divine  service  "anywhere  the  Gospel  was  dispensed 
with,"  possess  a  charm  quite  independent  of  this 
national  characteristic,  as  does  the  narration  given 
by  Sam  Patch  of  the  "aqueous  Empedocles  who 
dived  for  sublimity."  Same  of  the  newspaper 
stories  are  not  without  a  kind  of  humor,  as,  for 
instance,  the  announcement  that  a  woman  attempted 
to  kindle  a  fire  by  means  of  kerosene  oil,  and  the 
editor  simply  added,  without  comment,  that  the 
attendance  upon  the  funeral  would  have  been 
larger  but  for  a  wet  day!  Imagination,  of  course, 
supplied  all  the  details,  but  much  that  is  put  forth 
as  humor  and  wit  in  our  current  publications  is  a 
spurious  article,  and,  as  Addison  says,  only  resem- 
bles true  humor  as  a  monkey  resembles  a  man. 

It  has  been  said  that  French  humor  is  of  the 
passions,  German  is  abstract,  Italian  esthetic,  and 
Spanish  romantic,  while  English  humor  is  of  inter- 
est and  social  relations,  which  general  classifica- 
tion is  doubtless  correct,  like  rules  in  grammar,  with 
the  usual  number  of  exceptions.  The  humor  of 
the  Briton  is  of  such  stout  fibre  that  he  is  prone 
to  think  that  other  nations  scarcely  know  how  to  be 
funny,  and  the  Frenchman  returns  the  compliment 
in  coin  of  like  value. 

A  SENSE  OF  THE  LUDICROUS. 

TJiere  are  persons  born  without  humor,  as  there 
are  persons  without  sight  or  hearing,  but,  like 
Falstaff,  they  are  the  cause  of  humor  in  others,  as 


INTRODUCTION.  Jx 

when  the  Scotchman  and  his  wife  discussed  the 
doctrine  of  election:  "And  how  many  elect  on 
earth  now?"  "I  think,  Janet,  about  a  dizzen." 
"Hoot,  mon,  nae  so  many  as  that."  "Why,  Janet, 
do  you  think  naebody  to  be  saved  but  yoursel'  and 
the  minister?"  "Weel,  I  sometime  hae  my  doots 
about  the  minister."  Or  when  the  four  Scotch- 
men and  an  Englishman,  sitting  together  in  an 
Edinburgh  hostelry,  saw  a  son  of  Burns  enter,  and 
the  Englishman  remarked :  "I  would  rather1  see  the 
father  enter  this  room,"  and  the  Scotchman  replied : 
"That  is  impossible,  he  is  dead!" 

Without  laughter,  what  a  Sahara  of  barrenness 
would  life  be!  Upon  its  journey,  refreshing  wells 
of  humor  gladden  and  renew  the  soul,  and  history 
and  biography  agree  in  the  verdict  that  the  capacity 
for  gladness  is  but  the  other  side  of  the  capacity 
for  pain,  and  they  who  sorrow  most  are  they  who 
laugh  most  heartily.  A  Scotch  essayist,  with  dis- 
criminating judgment,  says  of  the  author  of  the 
Moslem  religion,  "Mahomet  had  that  indispensable 
requisite  of  a  great  man — he  could  laugh."  The 
laugh  of  the  author  of  "In  Memoriam"  was  thrill- 
ing and  triumphant,  and  he  who  sees  no  good  in 
humor  is  least  likely  to  perceive  the  true  and  the 
beautiful;  nevertheless,  while  humor  is  unfettered 
by  written  canons,  let  us  remember  that  it  is  for  the 
outer  courts  of  God's  temples,  nor  should  dare  enter 
the  Holy  of  Holies. 


CONTENTS. 

TITLE  AUTHOR                                                 PAGE 

On  the  Game  of  Foot- 
ball      "Mr.   Dooley" I 

Mon    Pierre Wallace  Bruce  Amsbary      .  5 

The  High-Backed  Chair    Schuyler  King n 

Katie's  Answer  .    .    .    .     W.  B.  Fowle 16 

Applied  Astronomy     .    .  Esther  B.   Tiffany  .    .     .    .  18 

iXThe  Ruling  Passion  .    .  William  H.  Siviter     ...  19 

Yaw,  Dot  Is  So.    .    .    .  Charles  Pollen  Adams    .    .  21 

I  Knew  He  Would  Come 

if  I  Waited    ....  Horace  G.  Williamson    .    .  22 

Her     First     Drawing- 

Room Gerald  Campbell     .    *    .    .  23 

The   Compact     .    .    .    *    George  Barlow 29 

Sally  Ann's  Experience .  Eliza  Calvert  Hall  ....  30 

The  Stuttering  Auction- 
eer    Charles  T.  Grilley  ....  41 

The  Groom's   Story  .    ,  Sir  A.  Conan  Doyle  ...  43 

A      Scene      from      the 

Shaughraun     ....    Dion  Boucicault 50 

Story  of  the  Gate  .    .    .  Harrison   Robertson   ...  54 

Mr.  Bob  Sawyer's  Party  Charles  Dickens      ....  55 

Want     to     be     Whur 

Mother   Is James  White omb  Riley  .    .  67 

.Spreading  the  News  .    .  From  the  Washington  Post  68 

When     the      Summer 

Boarders  Come  .    .    .  Nixon   Waterman   ....  73 

The  "New  Woman"  .    .    "Mr.  Dooley" 76 

Wet  Weather  Talk    .    .  James  Whitcomb  Riley  .    .  77 

(xi) 


xii  CONTENTS. 

TITLE  AUTHOR                                                 PAGE 

The     Joys     of     House- 
Hunting       Harvey  Peake 79 

When  the  Train   Comes 

In Nixon  Waterman    ....    86 

Saunders       McGlashan's 

Courtship David  Kennedy 89 

"No,  thank  You,  Tom"  Frederick  E.  Weatherley    .    94 
Chimmie  Fadden   Makes 

Friends E.  W.  Townscnd    ....    95 

The  Shaving  of  Jacob  .  Sam   Walter  Foss  ....  100 

A  Scotch  Wooing  .     .    .  Jerome  K.  Jerome  ....  102 

The  Wife  Who  Sat  Up  .  George  Grossmith   ....  104 
A     Poem    of    Everyday 

Life Albert  Riddle 105 

The   Hard-Shell 

Preacher Edward  Eggleston  ....  107 

The  Village  Choir      .     .    Anonymous 109 

Ringing  the  Changes  .    .    Bertha   Moore ill 

"Why     Don't    the    Men 

Propose?" Thomas  Haynes  Bayly    .    .  122 

French  with  a  Master  .  Theodore   Tilton     ....  124 

Speech  of  Spartacus  .     .    Bill   Nye 126 

Fame  and  Fate  ....  Edmund  Vance  Cooke    .    .  130 

Annabel  Lee Stanley  Huntley  .....  132 

The  Window   Blind  .     .  Henry  Arthur  Jones  .    .    .  134 
The     Bachelor's     Solilo- 
quy        Anonymous 141 

Women George  Eliot 143 

Keep  On  Just  the  Same .  Sam   Walter  Foss  ....  145 

The  Model  Wife  .    .    .    Bill  Nye 148 

Rubaiyat      of      Mathieu 

Lettellier Wallace  Bruce  Amsbary .    .  151 

The  New  Arrival  .     .     .  George  Washington  Cable  .  153 

A  Violent  Remedy     .    .  John  Seymour  Wood      .    .154 

When  a  Man's  in  Love  .  Nixon    Waterman   ....  164 


CONTENTS. 


Xlll 


TITLE 

Two  Fishers 

Christian    Science  .    .    . 

Chibougamou      .... 

Burglar   Bill 

Two  'Mericana  Men  .     . 

Ol'  Joshway  an'  de  Sun . 

Women  Gambling  .    .     . 

"This  Fever  Called  Liv- 
ing"   

Artie's    Proposal     .     .     . 

All's  Well  That  Ends 
Well 

Match-Making    .... 

A  Way  Out  of  It  .     .     . 

The  Golden  Arm  .     .     . 

The  Disagreeable  Man  . 

In  Pursuit  of  Priscilla  . 

If  You  Want  a  Kiss, 
Why,  Take  It  ... 

On  Cats  and  Dogs     .    . 

Da  Strit  Pianna     .    .    . 

What  May  Said  to  De- 
cember   

Cordial  Relations    .    .    . 

A  Certain  Young  Lady  . 

The  Ape  and  the  Lady  . 

Rip  Van  Winkle     .     .     . 

Before  Playing  Tinker- 
town  

\The  Late  John  Wiggins . 

Grampy  Sings  a  Song  . 

The  Great  Pancake  Rec- 
ord   

The  Man  in  the  Moon    . 

The   Nap   Interrupted     . 


AUTHOR  PAGE 

Anonymous 165 

Mark   Twain 166 

William  Henry  Drummond    173 

F.   Anstey 179 

T.  A.  Daly 186 

Joel  Chandler  Harris  .  .  .  187 
"Mr.  Dooley" 189 

Wallace  Irwin 193 

George  Ade 195 

T.  A.  Daly 198 

Captain  R.  Marshall   ...  200 

Samuel  Lover 204 

Mark    Twain 205 

W.  S.  Gilbert 207 

Edward  Salisbury  Field  .    .  209 

Anonymous 225 

Jerome  K.  Jerome  ....  226 
Wallace  Irwin 230 

Mark  Ambient 233 

Anthony    Hope 235 

Washington  Irving      .     .     .  241 

W.  S.  Gilbert 243 

244 

Edmund  Vance  Cooke  .  .  247 
Ellis  Parker  Butler  .  .  .249 
Holman  F.  Day 266 

Owen  Johnson 268 

James  Whitcomb  Riley  .  .  282 
Arthur  W.  Finer o  .  .  .  .285 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

TITLE  AUTHOR                                                     PAGE 

Neighbor  Jones's  Notion  Nixon    Waterman  ....  294 
"The    Puzzled    Census- 
Taker      John  Godfrey  Saxe    .    .    .  295 

The  Courting  of   Dinah 

Shadd Rudyard  Kipling     ....  296 

Modern  Medicine  .     .     .  Strickland  W.  Gillilan     .     .  306 

A  Seven-Dollar  Bill  .    .  George  Randolph  Chester  .  308 

The   Twins Henry  S.  Leigh 326 

Patriotic   Remnants    .    .  Strickland   W.   Gillilan   .     .  328 

Poor  Dear  Mamma  .    .  Rudyard  Kipling     ....  329 
.   A    Department-Store 

Ditty Charles  T.  Grilley  ....  338 

The  Princess  Mary    .     .     Charles    Major 342 

When  Lovely  Woman    .    Phoebe  Cary 350 

Lines  by  an  Old  Fogy  .    Anonymous 350 

De   Circus  Turkey     .    .    Ben   King 350 


HUMOROUS    SELECTIONS 

FOR 

READING  AND  SPEAKING 


On  the  Game  of  Football. 

"MR.    DOOLEY." 

From  "Mr.  Dooley  in  Peace  and  in  War."  Copyright, 
1896.  Published  by  Small,  Maynard  &  Co. 

"WHIN  I  was  a  young  man,"  said  Mr.  Dooley, 
"an'  that  was  a  long  time  ago, — but  not  so  long 
ago  as  manny  iv  me  inimies'd  like  to  believe,  if 
I  had  anny  inimies, — I  played  futball,  but  'twas 
not  th'  futball  I  see  whin  th'  Brothers'  school  an' 
th'  Saint  Aloysius  Tigers  played  las'  week  on  th' 
pee-raries. 

"Whin  I  was  a  la-ad  iv  a  Sundah  afthernoon 
we'd  get  out  in  th'  field  where  th'  oats'd  been  cut 
away,  an'  we'd  choose  up  sides.  Wan  cap'n'd  pick 
one  man,  an'  th'  other  another.  'I  choose  Dooley/ 
'I  choose  O'Connor,'  'I  choose  Dimpsey,'  'I  choose 
Riordan/  an'  so  on  till  there  was  twinty-five  or 
thirty  on  a  side.  Thin  wan  cap'n'd  kick  th'  ball, 
an'  all  our  side'd  r-run  at  it  an'  kick  it  back;  an' 
thin  wan  iv  th'  other  side'd  kick  it  to  us,  an'  afther 
awhile  th'  game'd  get  so  timpischous  that  all  th' 
la-ads  iv  both  sides'd  be  in  wan  pile,  kickin'  away 


2  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

at  wan  or  th'  other  or  at  th'  ball  or  at  th'  impire, 
who  was  mos'ly  a  la-ad  that  cudden't  play  an'  that 
come  out  less  able  to  play  thin  he  was  whin  he  wint 
in.  An',  if  anny  wan  laid  hands  on  th'  ball,  he  was 
kicked  be  ivry  wan  else  an'  be  th'  impire.  We 
played  fr'm  noon  till  dark,  an'  kicked  th'  ball  all 
th'  way  home  in  the  moonlight. 

"That  was  futball,  an'  I  was  a  great  wan  to  play 
it.  I'd  think  nawthin'  iv  histin'  th'  ball  two  hun- 
dherd  feet  in  th'  air,  an'  wanst  I  give  it  such  a 
boost  that  I  stove  in  th'  ribs  iv  th'  Prowtestant 
minister — bad  luck  to  him,  he  was  a  kind  man — 
that  was  lookin'  on  fr'm  a  hedge.  I  was  th'  finest 
player  in  th'  whole  county,  I  was  so. 

"But  this  here  game  that  I've  been  seein'  ivry 
time  th'  pagan  fistival  iv  Thanksgivin'  comes 
ar-round,  sure  it  ain't  th'  game  I  played.  I  seen 
th'  Dorgan  la-ad  comin'  up  th'  sthreet  yesterdah  in 
his  futball  clothes, — a  pair  of  matthresses  on  his 
legs,  a  pillow  behind,  a  mask  over  his  nose,  an' 
a  bushel  measure  iv  hair  on  his  head.  He  was  fol- 
lowed be  three  men  with  bottles,  Dr.  Ryan,  an' 
th'  Dorgan  fam'ly.  I  jined  thim.  They  was  a  big 
crowd  on  th'  peerary, — a  bigger  crowd  than  ye  cud 
get  to  go  f'r  to  see  a  prize  fight.  Both  sides  had 
their  frinds  that  give  th'  colledge  cries.  Says  wan 
crowd:  'Take  an  ax,  an  ax,  an  ax  to  thim.  Hoo- 
roo,  hooroo,  hellabaloo,  Christyan  Bro-others!'  an' 
th'  other  says,  'Hit  thim,  saw  thim,  gnaw  thim, 
chaw  thim,  Saint  Alo-ysius!'  Well,  afther  awhile 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  $ 

they  got  down  to  wur-ruk.  'Sivin,  eighteen,  two, 
four/  says  a  la-ad.  I've  seen  people  go  mad  over 
figures  durin'  th'  free  silver  campaign,  but  I  niver 
see  figures  make  a  man  want  f  r  to  go  out  an'  kill 
his  fellow-men  befure.  But  these  here  figures  had 
th'  same  effect  on  th'  la-ads  that  a  mintion  iv 
Lord  Castlereagh'd  have  on  their  fathers.  Wan 
la-ad  hauled  off,  an'  give  a  la-ad  acrost  fr'm  him  a 
punch*  in  th'  stomach.  His  frind  acrost  th'  way 
caught  him  in  th'  ear.  Th'  cinter  rush  iv  th'  Saint 
Aloysiuses  took  a  runnin'  jump  at  th'  left  lung  iv 
wan  iv  th'  Christyan  Brothers,  an*  wint  to  th' 
grass  with  him.  Four  Christyan  Brothers  leaped 
most  crooly  at  four  Saint  Aloysiuses,  an'  rolled 
thim.  Th'  cap'n  iv  th'  Saint  Aloysiuses  he  took  th' 
cap'n  iv  th'  Christyan  Brothers  be  th'  leg,  an'  he 
pounded  th'  pile  with  him  as  I've  seen  a  section 
hand  tamp  th'  thrack.  All  this  time  young  Dor- 
gan  was  standin'  back,  takin'  no  hand  in  th'  affray. 
All  iv  a  suddent  he  give  a  cry  iv  rage,  an'  jumped 
feet  foremost  into  th'  pile.  'Down !'  says  th' 
impire.  'Faith,  they  are  all  iv  that/  says  I.  'Will 
iver  they  get  up?'  'They  will/  says  ol'  man  Dor- 
gan.  'Ye  can't  stop  thim/  says  he. 

"It  took  some  time  f'r  to  pry  thim  off.  Near 
ivry  man  iv  th'  Saint  Aloysiuses  was  tied  in  a  knot 
around  wan  iv  th'  Christyan  Brothers.  On'y  wan 
iv  them  remained  on  th'  field.  He  was  lyin'  face 
down,  with  his  nose  in  th'  mud.  'He's  kilt/  says 
L  'I  think  he  is/  says  Dorgan,  with  a  merry  smile. 


4  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

'  'Twas  my  boy  Jimmy  done  it,  too/  says  he.  'He'll 
be  arrested  f  r  murdher/  says  I.  'He  will  not,' 
says  he.  'There's  on'y  wan  polisman  in  town  cud 
.  take  him,  an'  he's  down  town  doin'  th'  same  f'r 
somebody,'  he  says.  Well,  they  carried  th'  corpse 
to  th'  side,  an'  took  th'  ball  out  iv  his  stomach  with 
a  monkey  wrinch,  an'  th'  game  was  rayshumed. 
'Siven,  sixteen,  eight,  eleven,'  says  Saint  Aloysius; 
an'  young  Dorgan  started  to  run  down  th'  field. 
They  was  another  young  la-ad  r-runnin'  in  fr- front 
iv  Dorgan;  an',  as  fast  as  wan  iv  th'  Christyan 
Brothers  come  up  an'  got  in  th'  way,  this  here 
young  Saint  Aloysius  grabbed  him  be  th'  hair  iv 
th'  head  an'  th'  sole  iv  th'  fut,  an'  thrun  him  over 
his  shoulder.  'What's  that  la-ad  doin'?'  says  I. 
'Interfering'  says  he.  'I  shud  think  he  was/  says 
I,  'an'  most  impudent/  I  says.  ;  'Tis  such  inter- 
ference as  this/  I  says,  'that  breaks  up  fam'lies;' 
an'  I  come  away. 

"  'Tis  a  noble  sport,  an'  I'm  glad  to  see  us  Irish 
ar-re  gettin'  into  it.  Whin  we  larn  it  thruly,  we'll 
teach  thim  colledge  joods  fr'm  th'  pie  belt  a  thrick 
or  two." 

"We  have  already,"  said  Mr.  Hennessy. 
"They'se  a  team  up  in  Wisconsin  with  a  la-ad  be 
th'  name  iv  Jeremiah  Riordan  f'r  cap'n,  an'  wan 
named  Patsy  O'Dea  behind  him.  They  come  down 
here,  an'  bate  th'  la-ads  fr'm  th'  Chicawgo  Colledge 
down  be  th'  Midway." 

"Iv  coorse,   they   did,"   said   Mr.   Dooley.     "Iv 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  $ 

coorse,  they  did.    An'  they  cud  bate  anny  collection 
iv  Baptists  that  iver  come  out  iv  a  tank." 

Mon  Pierre. 

WALLACE  BRUCE  AMSBARY. 

From   "Ballads  of   Bourbonnais."     Copyright,    1904,   by 
the  Bobbs-Merrill  Co.     Reprinted  by  permission. 

IT  is  to-morrow  morning  dat 

I  marry  Pierre  Minot: 
I  wander  if  I  mak'  a  dream, 

Or  if  it  can't  be  so; 
But  still  I  see  hees  picture  dere, 

It  hang  opon  de  wall ; 
He  ees  de  bol'  Pierre  Minot, 

He's  gat  head  of  dem  all. 

I  nevere  shall  forget  firs'  tarn' 

I  meet  dat  beeg  gargon, 
I  see  h'right  'way  opon  my  heart 

He  seem  to  be  moch  gone; 
I  t'ink  dat's  veree  bol'  of  heem, 

Of  course  I  mak'  resent, 
For  heem  to  fall  on  lof '  wid  me 

Before  I  am  consent. 

But  somehow  here  dese  French  boys,  dey 

Hav'  gat  it  on  dere  min' 
Dat  dey  can  hav'  de  gairl  dey  wan' 

Wen  dey  can  mak'  de  fin'. 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

I  say  to  me,  myself  I  say, 

I'll  geeve  heem  une.lessone, 
I'll  mak'  heem  know  not  where  he  ees 

Or  where  he  want  to  gone. 

I  soon  is  see  I  gat  ma  man, 

He  tak'  me  off  wan  side, 
He  wan'  to  know  if  Sunday  nex' 

I  wid  heem  tak'  a  ride; 
I  say  to  heem,  "Young  Lettellier 

Was  ask  me  do  dat,  too; 
I'm  verree  sorry,  M'sieu  Pierre, 

I  can  not  go  wid  you." 

Dat  was  a  story  dat  I  tell 

About  young  Lettellier, 
But  w'en  Pierre  meet  heem  on  de  road, 

I  t'ink  it  was  nex'  day, 
He  mak'  present  of  two  black  eye, 

He  tears  hees  hat  in  piece', 
He  use  heem  op  mos'  mighty  rough, 

Lettelliers  wan  beeg  geese. 

An'  den  two  weeks  is  pass  away, 

No  wan  is  com'  near  me, 
Not  even  Pierre,  who,  I  was  sure, 

He  could  not  let  me  be ; 
De  boys  dey  all  is  drop  me  lak' 

Wan  hot  potato  ball, 
I  wander  w'at  dat  all  is  mean 

An'  w'at  keep  'way  dem  all. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

An'  w'en  t'ree  week  is  com'  an'  pass 

An'  Sunday's  here  again, 
I'm  gat  to  be  a  lonely  gairl, 

An'  dis  is  happen  den: 
I  see  a  bran'  new  buggy  com' 

Down  road  where  we  leeve  at, 
It's  drive  by  Pierre  Minot,  it  ees, — 

My  heart  go  pit-a-pat. 

But  w'at  you  t'ink  was  in  ma  min' 

W'en  he  go  drivin'  by 
An'  not  look  h'right  or  to  de  lef 

But  hoi'  hees  head  so  high ; 
An'  den  I  stamp  ma  heel  wid  rage, 

I  grin'  beneat'  my  feet 
De  rose  I  pick  for  heem  to  geeve — 

My  heart  turn  col'  lak'  sleet. 

For  years  all  of  de  gargon  here 

Dey  do  jus'  w'at  /  say — 
An'  now  dis  bol'  Pierre  Minot, 

He  wan'  to  ac'  hees  way  ; 
An'  so  I  cry  for  long,  long  tarn', 

Den  look  down  by  de  gate, 
An'  op  de  padt  walk  Pierre  Minot, 

De  man  I — almos'  hate. 

He  whistle  tune—'Apres  du  Bal" 
An'  "High  Born  Lady,"  too, 

An'  tip  hees  hat  an'  bow  to  me 
An'  say,  "How  do  you  do? 


8  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

I  not  expec'  to  fin'  you  home, 

I  t'ought  you  go  away 
An'  h'ride  along  each  Sunday  tarn* 

Wid  dat  young  Lettellier." 

He  also  say,  "I  t'ought  you  had 

Mor'  taste  dan  tak'  a  ride 
Wid  man  dat's  gat  t'ree  four  black  eyes; 

I  t'ought  I  would  decide 
To  com'  an'  geeve  you  wan  gran'  spin 

'Way  down  chcmin  public. 
Hein!   Bientot  you  com'  wid  me, 

An'  be  about  it  quick." 

Wat's  mor'  to  do  I  am  not  know, 

I'm  almos'  'fraid  refuse; 
He  mak'  me  gat  my  hat  an'  com' ; 

To  say  "no"  is  no  use. 
He  lif  me  op  in  de  high  seat, 

Unhitch  an'  jump  in  too, 
An'  soon  we  mak'  t'ree  forty  gait — 

My!   how  dat  horse  he  flew. 

De  boggay  he  has  got  red  wheels, 

De  wheels  she's  rubber  tire — 
An'  w'en  dey  go  spin  down  de  road 

Dey  seem  lak'  dere  on  fire ; 
I  almos'  t'ink  if  Pierre  not  hoi' 

Mos'  clos'  on  tight  to  me, 
I  would  be  fri'ht  ver'  near  to  death, 

I's  scare'  as  I  can  be. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

But  somehow  w'en  hees  gr'ad  beeg  arm 

Was  hoi'  me  roun'  de  wais', 
I  don'  gat  w'ite  som'  mor'  wid  fear, 

But  turn  red  on  de  face. 
Oh  my,  wid  rage  I'm  mad  wid  heem, 

Wat  could  a  poor  gairl  do, 
For  hav'  a  man  cut  op  lak'  dat 

An'  ac'  lak'  hees  bran'  new? 

Den  Pierre  look  op  an'  catch  ma  eye, 

An'  w'en  to  me  he  say, 
"Rosalee,  dear,  w'at  do  you  t'ink, 

Ees  it  not  pretty  day?" 
I  say  to  heem  de  day's  all  right, 

But  any  fool  would  know 
All  'bout  dat  'fore  dey  spe'k  it  out 

An'  tell  you  'bout  it  so. 

De  twilight  com',  we're  jogging  'long 

De  road  down  1'Arable  way, 
An'  Pierre  keep  talking  all  de  tarn', 

I  can't  gat  word  to  say. 
He  tell  me  dere  is  une  fin'  farm, 

How  do  you  lak'  de  trees, 
Dat  line  de  orchard  on  de  lef 

For  keep  off  nort'  win'  breeze? 

Dere  is  new  house  a  building  op, 

De  roof  is  almos'  done, 
1  order  dat  for  you  an'  me 

W'en  you  an'  me  are  wan. 


I0  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

An'  den  he  smile  on  de  same  way; 

I  use  to  do  dat,  too, 
Wen  I  had  gargon  on  de  string 

An'  keep  dem  in  a  stew. 

I  try  to  gat  away  from  heem, 

But  Pierre  gat  tighter  grip, 
An'  den  he  talk  mos'  different 

As  'long  de  road  we  skip ; 
He  say,  "Ma  Rosalee,  ma  chere" 

In  voice  dat's  sof  an'  low, 
I  nevere  heard  so  sweet  a  soun* 

As  he  is  speek,  dat  so. 

"Ah,  mon  ami,  can  you  not  see 

I'm  tre't  you  rough  because 
Dat's  only  way  to  keep  out  reach 

Your  pretty  tiger  claws." 
An'  w'en  he  see  de  leddle  tear 

He  fol*  me  to  hees  breas' 
An' — kiss  me  once,  maybe  t'ree  tarn', 

An'  smood  me  wid  caress. 

An'  den  he  ax  w'en  I  marray 

An'  nevere  from  heem  part, 
An'  den  som't'ing  jomp  on  my  t'roat, 

I  t'ink  it  was  my  heart ; 
I  can  not  speak  a  word  to  heem, 

My  face  all  flush  wid  red, 
No  better  he  is  understan' 

If  houndred  word  I  said. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

It  is  to-morrow  morning  dat 

I  marray  Pierre  Minot, 
I  wander  if  I  mak'  a  dream 

Or  if  it  can  be  so. 
But  still  I  see  hees  picture  dere, 

It  hang  upon  de  wall; 
He  is  mon  Pierre  I  lof  so  well, 

He's  bes'  man  of  dem  all. 


The  High-Backed  Chair. 

SCHUYLER  KING. 

THE  bookkeeper  always  went  away  on  Thurs- 
day afternoon,  so  the  chair  and  the  den  were 
vacant,  and  then  She  used  to  come  out  of  her 
office,  leaving  the  noisy  typewriter  to  have  a  rest, 
and  slip  into  the  big  chair  to  do  some  reviewing 
She  always  had  on  Thursday  afternoon. 

And  it  was  just  because  She  sat  there  one  par- 
ticular Thursday  afternoon  last  month  that  this 
exceedingly  veracious  narrative  comes  to  be 
written. 

It  was  raining,  and  She  was  feeling  lazy,  so  She 
hurried  through  her  reviews,  and  sat  there,  doing 
nothing  but  just  gazing  at  the  blue  wool  dog  with 
dark  red  eyes  on  which  the  bookkeeper  wiped  his 
pen,  and  which  he  regarded  as  being  quite  the  hap- 
piest artistic  product  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

So  She  was  sitting  there,  her  thoughts  converg- 
ing toward  a  very  interesting  objective  point,  when 


12  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

the  outside  door  opened  and  closed  with  a  bang, 
and  He  came  in.  She  could  always  tell  when  He 
came  in;  He  jumped  the  last  two  steps  and  gave 
the  door  a  swing  which  made  it  close  after  him 
with  a  hair-raising  bang — but  He  didn't  care. 

There  was  that  fearful  bang  now.  All  at  once, 
She  thought  of  something  which  made  her  give 
the  blue  wool  dog  the  bookkeeper  used  for  a  pen- 
wiper such  a  squeeze  that  some  cotton-wool  blood 
dripped  appealingly  from  his  left  paw;  then  She 
put  one  of  the  bookkeeper's  cough-drops  in  her 
mouth,  tucked  in  her  sleeves,  touched  her  knot  of 
hair  to  make  sure  that  it  did  not  show  over  the  top 
of  the  chair,  and  then  She  sat  extremely  still,  and 
waited. 

Very  soon,  He  came  along  to  the  window  in  the 
grating,  and  vouchsafed,  "Are  you  there,  Scott?" 
for  when  the  chair  was  turned  around  to  the  desk, 
no  one  could  see  who  was  in  it. 

"Yes,  I'm  here,"  came  a  hoarse  and  muffled 
voice  from  within. 

"Well,  turn  around,  won't  you?  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

"I  don't  want  to  turn  around,"  said  the  Voice 
crossly;  "I've  got  a  cold,  and  a  sore  throat,  and 
the  light  hurts  my  eyes,  and  I  have  a  cough-drop  in 
my  mouth;  if  you  want  to  talk,  go  ahead,  and  I'll 
listen." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  and  the  owner  of  the 
Voice  squeezed  the  blue  wool  dog  until  he  really 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  ^ 

should  have  howled,  but  he  was  a  long-suffering 
dog,  and  then  He  said  listlessly, 

"Rotten  weather!" 

"Y— yes." 

"Many  of  the  men  in  to-day?" 

"Quite  a  few." 

"Well"— a  brief  sigh— "I  guess  I'll  have  to  finish 
that  confounded  report."  The  sound  of  retreating 
footsteps,  a  short  and  undecided  shuffle,  and  then — 

"Scott!" 

"Well?" 

"Did — did  she  wear  those  violets  I  left  for  her 
this  morning?" 

"Yes." 

"She  didn't  say  anything  about  them,  did  she?" 

"No,"  snapped  the  Voice;  "what'd  you  expect 
her  to  say  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing" — dejectedly;  a  pause.  "Is  she  in 
her  office?" 

The  chair  creaked  a  little,  and  then  the  Voice 
said,  "No,"  as  the  prelude  to  a  hacking  cough. 

"Oh,  does  she  go  home  early  now  on  Thursday? 
She  told  me " 

No  reply  but  the  rattling  of  the  cough-drop  box. 

"Scott !" 

"Well?" 

"You  said  she  didn't  say  anything  about  the 
violets?" 

"Yes." 

"Didn't  say  she  liked  them,  or — or — anything?" 


14  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"No." 

Another  pause. 

"I  say,  Scott" — a  short  but  agonized  scuffle — 
"do  you — I  mean — yes,  do  you — hang  it  all,  do  you 
think  she  cares  for  me  at  all  ?" 

The  chair  creaked  again,  as  though  the  occupant 
thereof  had  started  violently,  and  then  the  Voice 
muttered  unsteadily,  "How  should  I  know?" 

"Well,"  He  said  humbly,  "she  talks  to  you  more 
than  to  any  one  else,  and  I  thought  maybe " 

"And  you  thought  maybe  she  discussed  her  feel- 
ings with  the  office  staff!"  interrupted  the  Voice, 
full  of  hoarse,  indignant  scorn. 

"Oh,  no!  Not  that!"  He  exclaimed,  noting,  in 
the  midst  of  his  perplexity,  what  a  peculiar  ring 
there  was  to  Scott's  voice,  even  with  a  cold.  "You 
know  I  don't  mean  that — Scott!" 

"Well?" 

"Will  you  turn  around  so  that  I  can  talk  to  you?" 

"No." 

"Well,  if  you  won't  you  won't.  But  I'll  talk  all 
the  same — I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  I  tell  you, 
it's  awful;  you've  been  through  the  mill,  Scott — 
you  ought  to  know  what  it  is  to  think  of  a  girl  all 
day,  and  dream  of  her  all  night" — here  the  chair 
creaked  outrageously — "to  put  away  every  dollar 
with  the  hope  that  she'll  share  it  with  you  some 
day,  and  then  go  blow  in  almost  all  you  have  when 
it  strikes  you  what  a  jay  you  are  to  think  of  it  at 
all.  Perhaps  you  know  what  it  is  to  eat  your  din- 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  i$ 

ner  in  the  confounded  restaurant,  thinking  all  the 
time  that  if  you  only  had  the  courage  to  speak, 
she  might  be  smiling  at  you  across  a  table  of  your 
own,  with  a  soft  light,  and  flowers,  and  all  that, 
you  know" — if  he  had  not  known  Scott  abhorred 
perfumes,  he  could  have  sworn  to  a  whiff  of  wood 
violet,  as  a  handkerchief  was  raised  to  stifle  the 
very  troublesome  cough  at  this  juncture — "and  to 
loaf  around  your  room  or  some  silly  show  at  night, 
trying  not  to  remember  that,  if  you  were  only  the 
kind  of  a  fellow  she  could  like  a  little,  you  could 
be  sitting  by  a  cozy  hearth,  with  the  firelight  shin- 
ing on  her  hair — I  can  just  imagine  how  it  would 
shine  on  her  hair,  Scott !"  Here  the  handkerchief 
was  raised  again,  and  remained  raised,  but  the 
cough  was  not  apparent,  so  He  continued :  "I  don't 
know  why  I'm  letting  out  on  you  like  this,  Scott, 
but  I've  got  to  talk  to  some  one,  and  you're  the 
only  one  I  know  who  won't  laugh  at  me  for  being 
a  crazy  fool;  it's  driving  me  wild,  and  half  the 
time  I  think  that  perhaps  she  cares  for  Myers! 
Scott !" 

"Well?" 

"Do  you  think  that  she  could  care  for  me  a 
little?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Voice  tremulously,  but  judi- 
ciously; "I  do!" 

"Jove!  You  do!  Say!  Don't  fool  with  me, 
Scott;  what  makes  you  think  so?" 

The  December  dusk  had  fallen  long  since,  and 


l6  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

the  great  office  was  very  still,  save  for  the  splash- 
ing of  the  rain  against  the  windows,  and  quite 
deserted  except  for  the  office  boy  away  down  at 
the  other  end. 

"Scott,  for  Heaven's  sake  tell  me  what  makes 
you  think  so?"  He  asked,  even  more  eagerly  than 
before. 

And  then  the  office  chair  swung  slowly  around, 
disclosing  the  bookkeeper's  blue  wool  dog,  with 
white  cotton  wounds  all  over  his  portly  person,  held 
in  front  of  a  very  crimson  and  tear-stained  face. 

"Well— because "  faltered  the  Voice,  very 

low  and  sweet  now. 

And  then  He  understood,  and,  after  a  delirious 
half-second  to  himself,  He  leaned — well,  He  leaned 
a  shocking  distance  through  the  grating,  but  the 
office-boy  was  cross-eyed,  and  you  couldn't  tell 
which  way  he  mjght  be  looking  at  any  given 
moment. 

The  bookkeeper's  new  dog  is  lavender,  with  a 
green  embroidered  tail. 

Katie's  Answer. 
W.  B.  FOWLE. 

OCH,  Katie's  a  rogue,  it  is  thrue, 
But  her  eyes,  like  the  sky,  are  so  blue, 

An'  her  dimples  so  swate, 

An'  her  ankles  so  nate, 
She  dazed,  an'  she  bothered  me,  too. 


f'OR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

Till  one  mornin'  we  wint  for  a  ride, 
Whin,  demure  as  a  bride,  by  my  side 

The  darlint,  she  sat, 

Wid  the  wickedest  hat 
'Neath  purty  girl's  chin  iver  tied. 

An'  my  heart,  arrah,  thin  how  it  bate! 
For  my  Kate  looked  so  temptin'  an'  swate, 

Wid  cheeks  like  the  roses, 

An'  all  the  rej  posies 
That  grow  in  her  garden  so  nate. 

But  I  sat  just  as  mute  as  the  dead, 
Till  she  said  wid  a  toss  of  her  head, 

"If  I'd  known  that  to-day 

Ye'd  have  nothing  to  say, 
I'd  have  gone  wid  my  cousin,  instead." 

Thin  I  felt  myself  grow  very  bowld, 
For  I  knew  she'd  not  scold  if  I  towld 

Uv  the  love  in  my  heart, 

That  would  never  depart, 
Though  I  lived  to  be  wrinkled  and  old. 

An'  I  said:   "If  I  dared  to  do  so, 
I'd  lit  go  uv  the  baste,  and  I'd  throw 

Both  arms  round  her  waist, 

An'  be  stalin'  a  taste 
Uv  them  lips  that  are  coaxin'  me  so." 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Thin  she  blushed  a  more  illigent  red 
As  she  said,  without  raisin'  her  head, 

An'  her  eyes  lookin'  down 

'Neath  her  lashes  so  brown, 
"Would  ye  like  me  to  drive,  Misther  Ted?" 


Applied  Astronomy. 
ESTHER  B.  TIFFANY. 

HE  took  me  out  to  see  the  stars, 

That  astronomic  bore; 
He  said  there  were  two  moons  near  Mars, 

While  Jupiter  had  four. 

I  thought  of  course  he'd  whisper  soon 
What  fourfold  bliss  'twould  be 

To  stroll  beneath  that  fourfold  moon 
On  Jupiter  with  me. 

And  when  he  spoke  of  Saturn's  ring, 

I  was  convinced  he'd  say 
That  was  the  very  kind  of  thing 

To  offer  me  some  day. 

But  in  a  tangent  off  he  went 

To  double  stars.     Now  that 
Was  most  suggestive,  so  content 

And  quite  absorbed  I  sat. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

But  no,  he  talked  a  dreary  mess, 

Of  which  the  only  fraction 
That  caught  my  fancy,  I  confess, 

Was  "mutual  attraction." 

I  said  I  thought  it  very  queer 

And  stupid  altogether, 
For  stars  to  keep  so  very  near, 

And  yet  not  come  together. 

At  that  he  smiled,  and  turned  his  head; 

I  thought  he'd  caught  the  notion; 
He  merely  bowed  good-night  and  said, 

Their  safety  lay  in  motion. 


The  Ruling  Passion. 

WILLIAM    H.    SIVITER. 

SHE  had  never  mailed  a  letter  before,  and  so  she 
approached  the  stamp  clerk's  window  with  the 
same  air  that  she  would  enter  a  dry-goods  store. 

"I  would  like  to  look  at  some  stamps,  please." 

"What  denomination  do  you  want?" 

"Denomination  ?" 

"Yes.     Is  it  for  a  letter  or  a  newspaper?" 

"Oh,  I  want  to  send  a  letter  to  my  Uncle  John ; 
he's  just  moved  to " 

"Then  you  need  a  two-cent  stamp,"  said  the 
clerk,  offering  her  one  of  that  value. 


20  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"I  hardly  like  that  color!" 

"That  is  a  two-cent  stamp,  madam.  Please  stand 
aside,  and  let  the  gentleman  behind  you  come  up." 

"But  haven't  you  got  them  in  any  other  color? 
I  never  did  like  that  shade  of  red." 

"There  is  only  one  color." 

"That  is  strange.  I'd  think  you'd  keep  them  in 
different  shades,  so  that  there'd  be  some  choice. 
You  are  sure  you  have  none  in  a  brighter  red,  or 
even  in  a  different  color — Nile  green,  or  seal 
brown,  or  jubilee  blue,  for  instance?" 

"You  can  put  two  one-cent  stamps  on  your  let- 
ter if  you  like." 

"Let  me  see  them,  please.  Ah,  that  will  do.  I 
like  that  shade  so  much  better.  I'll  take  only  one, 
if  you  please." 

"If  it's  for  a  letter  you'll  need  two.  These  are 
one-cent  stamps  and  letter  postage  is  two  cents  per 
ounce." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  put  two  stamps  on  my  let- 
ter ;  I  don't  think  they  will  look  well." 

"It  requires  two  cents  to  carry  a  letter,  madam, 
and  you  must  either  put  a  two-cent  stamp  on  or  two 
ones.  It  won't  go  without.  I  must  ask  you  to 
please  hurry,  for  you  are  keeping  a  great  many 
people  away  from  the  window." 

"That's  singular.  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  two 
together.  You  are  sure  the  other  doesn't  come  in 
seal-brown,  or " 

"No,  madam  ;  no !" 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  21 

"Then  I'll  have  to  see  if  I  can  suit  myself  else- 
where." 

And  she  departed. 


Yaw,  Dot  Is  So! 

CHARLES  POLLEN  ADAMS. 

YAW,  dot  is  so!    yaw,  dot  is  so! 
"Dis  vorldt  vas  all  a  fleeting  show!" 

I  shmokes  mine  pipe, 

I  trinks  mine  beer, 
Und  efry  day  to  vork  I  go; 
"Dis  vorldt  vas  all  a  fleeting  show"; 

Yaw,  dot  is  so ! 

Yaw,  dot  is  so !  yaw,  dot  is  so ! 

I  don't  got  mooch  down  here  below. 

I  eadt  und  trink, 

I  vork  und  sleep, 
Und  find  out,  as  I  oldter  grow, 
I  haf  a  hardter  row  to  hoe; 

Yaw,  dot  is  so! 

Yaw,  dot  is  so !  yaw,  dot  is  so ! 

Dis  vorldt  don't  gif  me  half  a  show; 

Somedings  to  vear, 

Some  food  to  eadt; 

Vot  else?    Shust  vait  a  minute,  dough; 
Katrina,  und  der  poys!  oho! 

Yaw,  dot  is  so! 


22  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Yaw,  dot  is  so !  yaw,  dot  is  so ! 

Dis  vorldt  don't  been  a  fleeting  show^ 

I  haf  mine  frau, 

I  haf  mine  poys 
To  sheer  me,  daily,  as  I  go; 
Dot's  pest  as  anydings  I  know; 

Yaw,  dot  is  so! 

I  Knew  He  Would  Come  if  I  Waited. 

HORACE  G.  WILLIAMSON. 

I  KNEW  he  would  come  if  I  waited, 

Tho  waiting,  it  caused  me  despair; 
And  I  sat  by  the  window  and  listened 

To  hear  his  first  step  on  the  stair; 
For  I  knew  he  would  come  if  I  waited, 

But  anxiously  I  paced  'round  the  floor; 
Oh,  to  see  his  own  form  on  the  threshold 

As  I  hastened  to  open  the  door. 
Would  he  come?    But  how  dare  I  question 

His  faithfulness  to  his  own  word; 
Would  he  dare  not  come  at  my  calling? 

Or  was  that  his  dear  step  that  I  heard? 
Oh,  I  rush  to  the  door  for  to  meet  him, 

For  to  welcome  him  here  after  all, 
For  I  knew  he  would  come  if  I  waited, 

He  would  come  to  answer  my  call. 
Yes,  yes,  it  is  he  on  the  pavement, 

He's  coming,  he's  ringing  the  bell, 
And  my  heart  beats  wild  with  rapture 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  2$ 

Of  a  joy  which  I  never  can  tell, 
For  I  knew  he  would  come  if  I  waited, 

Yes,  he'd  come  at  my  call ;  joy,  O  joy, 
What  happiness  it  is  to  welcome, 

Just  to  welcome  "the  messenger  boy." 


Her  First  Drawing-room. 

GERALD  CAMPBELL. 
From  "The  Joneses  and  the  Asterisks." 

No,  no  more,  Mrs.  Parkins.  I  can't  stand  it  any 
tighter.  It  shows  my  figure  very  well  as  it  is,  don't 
you  think?  Do  you  think  I'll  do  now?  Just  a  shade 
more  powder  perhaps.  Now,  you'd  better  go  and 
finish  Miss  Maud.  I  don't  suppose  she's  half— 
Ah,  there  you  are,  child,  at  last.  In  time  for  once. 
No,  don't  touch  me.  How  thoughtless  you  are !  I 
was  wondering  how  long  you  were  going  to  keep 
me  waiting.  Now,  are  you  sure  you  have  got  the 
cards?  Give  them  to  me.  You're  perfectly  cer- 
tain to  forget  them.  Why  doesn't  the  carriage 
come,  I  wonder? 

Turn  round,  Maud,  and  let  me  look  at  you.  My 
dear  child,  I  think  your  dress  is  a  little  low.  Non- 
sense, you  can't  compare  yourself  with  me.  That's 
quite  a  different  thing.  Oh,  the  carriage  has  come 
at  last,  has  it?  Well,  tell  him  to  wait.  Now,  have 
you  remembered  everything?  Let's  see.  There's 
your  flowers  and  your  gloves  and — oh  yes,  your 
curtsey.  Let  me  see  if  you  remember  what 


24  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Madame  Devere  taught  you.  Oh,  gracious,  no; 
that  will  never  do.  How  awkward  you  are!  No 
one  would  ever  think  that  you  were  my  daughter. 
Let  me  show  you.  There,  like  that.  You  see,  that 
is  far  more  graceful.  Try  it  again  now,  and  kiss 
my  hand,  and  don't  take  so  long  about  it.  You'll 
make  us  late,  after  all.  And  do  try  and  remember 
one  thing.  Don't  be  nervous,  and  don't  fuss.  It's 
so  bourgeois  to  be  always  fussing. 


Goodness,  what  a  crowd !  How  they  stare ! 
And,  of  course,  there  isn't  a  policeman.  Make 
haste  into  the  carriage.  They  ought  all  to  be  struck 
blind,  like  Peeping  What's-his-name,  you  know,  in 
Tennyson.  Now,  do  be  careful  of  my  dress. 
Thank  goodness,  we're  off  at  last.  Oh,  where  are 
the  tickets?  Stop,  coachman,  stop.  Drive  back. 

Now,  what  did  I  tell  you?    Of  course  you've 

Oh,  you  have  got  them.  Stop,  coachman.  No, 
drive  on.  No,  straight  on,  of  course,  to  the 
Palace.  Well,  I  won't  say  anything  more  about  it 
now,  as  I  want  you  to  be  calm  to-day,  but  another 

time What  was  I  saying  ?    Oh,  yes ;  whatever 

you  do,  don't  get  nervous.  The  only  way  is  not 
to  think  about  it.  I  remember  when  I  was  pre- 
sented, when  your  father  was  made  an  alderman, 
I  wasn't  a  bit  nervous ;  so  you  oughtn't  to  be  now. 
It's  almost  a  pity,  you  know,  that  I  am  taking  you 
myself.  Miss  Jones,  by  the  Countess  of  Asterisk, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  2$ 

would  have  looked  so  much  better  in  the  papers. 
And  now  she's  going  to  present  that  dreadful  Har- 
riet Smythe.  Smythe,  indeed !  I  can't  see  what 
people  like  that  want  with  being  presented.  Of 
course,  for  us  it  will  be  very  useful — travelling,  you 
know,  and  at  foreign  Courts,  and  all  that.  Oh,  you 
can  never  tell ;  we  might.  Being  presented  is  like 
being  a  Freemason ;  you  never  know  when  it  will  help 
you.  Besides,  of  course,  in  our  position  we  must. 
But  I  call  it  perfectly  indecent  of  Mrs.  Smythe  to 
go  pushing  her  daughter  forward.  I  can't  bear 
snobbishness.  If  only  Dickens  was  alive  to  write 
another  Book  of  Snobs  and  put  them  in  it.  Maud, 
I  will  not  have  you  contradicting  me  in  that  flippant 
way.  Thackeray  wrote  Vanity  Fair. 

That's  the  Prince  of  Wales's  house  on  the  left. 
I  do  hope  he  will  be  here  to-day,  and  the  dear 
Princess.  They  say  he's  so  affable.  How  cold  it 
is!  I  would  have  brought  a  shawl  or  something, 
only  for  the  people.  They  do  enjoy  looking  at  us, 
poor  things.  What  are  those  people  cheering  for? 
And  they  are  laughing,  too.  At  us?  How  absurd 
you  are.  Why  should  they — unless — perhaps — 
they  take  us  for  royalty. 

What  is  that  man  saying?  "Where's  your 
dickey?"  What  does  that  mean?  What  is  a 
dickey?  "Go  home  and  finish  dressing."  What  can 
he  mean?  My  dress?  Oh,  Maud,  has  anything 
come  undone?  Mrs.  Parkins  would  insist  on 
lacing  me  too  tight.  Gracious,  what  a  fright  he 


-6  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

gave  me.  Poor  man,  I  dare  say  he  Has  never  seen 
a  lady  in  full-dress  before.  It's  really  extraordin- 
ary how  ignorant  the  lower  class  are,  with  all  their 
Board  schools  and  piano-playing.  If  they  would 
only  teach  them  really  useful  things,  now. 

Aren't  you  cold,  Maud?  Well,  you  ought  to  be 
then.  I  did  think  of  wearing  a  high  neck,  with  my 
asthma — only  Mrs.  Smythe  said  she  wasn't  going 
to,  so  of  course  I  had  to,  too.  And  now  she  isn't 
coming  after  all,  just  to  let  people  see  she  knows 
Lady  Asterisk.  Look,  they  are  pointing  at  us 
again.  How  very  disagreeable!  Why  aren't  all 
those  people  working,  instead  of  idling  here  all 
day?  Poking  their  dirty  faces  right  into  the  car- 
riage. I'm  sure  I  don't  see  the  good  of  your  father 
being  in  the  County  Council  if  he  can't  stop  it. 
Do  try  and  sit  a  little  more  that  way,  Maud.  I'm 
sure  you  have  got  more  than  your  share  of  the  seat. 
***** 

Here  we  are  at  last.  Now  remember,  don't  get 
nervous  whatever  you  do.  Did  you  give  the  coach- 
man the  card?  Well,  then,  you  follow  me.  Don't 
stand  dawdling  there,  child.  Go  on  in  front. 
Gracious,  what  a  crowd !  I  thought  this  was  to  be 
a  select  drawing-room,  and  there  are  the  Haycocks 
and  those  dreadful  people  from  Earl's-court,  and, 
look !  there's  that  Smythe  girl,  hanging  on  to  Lady 
Asterisk,  of  course.  I  wonder  where  she  got  her 
pearls  from. 

Dear  Lady  Asterisk!    Yes,  looking  quite  pretty; 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  2J 

and  what  lovely  pearls  she  has !  Isn't  it  too  tiring  ? 
I  feel  ready  to  drop.  The  impertinent  hairdresser 
said  that  if  he  didn't  come  at  eight  he  couldn't  come 
at  all,  so  Maud  and  I  have  been  sitting  ever  since. 
So  glad  you  think  so.  She's  very  nervous,  poor 
child ;  but  I  keep  telling  her  not  to  think  about  it. 

That's  the  only  way,  isn't Why,  she's  gone ! 

How  rude  it  is  the  way  these  people  push.  The 
only  thing  is  to  push,  too.  It's  a  perfect  scandal 
keeping  the  doors  shut  so  long.  I'm  sure  the  dear 
Queen  doesn't  know  about  it.  We  must  get  up  to 
the  front,  though.  I'm  not  going  to  stand  here  all 
day.  It's  like  waiting  for  an  omnibus  at  Hyde  Park 
Corner.  It  doesn't  do  to  be  always  thinking  about 
politeness.  There's  a  time  for  all  things. 

There,  at  last.  Quick,  Maud.  What  does  it  mat- 
ter if  you  did  kick  her.  You  can't  stand  there 
apologizing  all  day.  Would  you  kindly  not  push, 
madam,  and  let  me  pass?  There!  I  was  deter- 
mined that  old  thing  shouldn't  get  before  me. 

What  ?    The  Duchess  of ?  Are  you  sure  ?  So  it 

was.  Dear  me!  Yes,  I  remember  now,  at  the 
bazaar.  How  provoking!  Here  she  is  again.  Per- 
haps I  ought  to I'm  sure  I  beg  your  Grace's  par- 
don. So  stupid  of  me.  If  I'd  only Well,  really ! 

Did  you  see  that,  Maud?  Never  even  looked  at  me. 
No  wonder  people  want  to  do  away  with  the  House 
of  Lords.  Probably,  though,  she  was  one  of  those 
horrid  Americans.  Yes,  I'm  sure  she  was.  Our 
aristocracy  are  so  different. 


2g  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

They  really  ought  to  arrange  things  better. 
Making  us  all  so  hot  with  pushing  and  scrambling, 
and  then  standing  in  this  dreadful  draught.  How 
many  more  of  these  rooms  are  there,  I  wonder? 
The  next  the  last?  Oh,  thank  you  very  much 
indeed,  I'm  sure.  I  must  say  it's  high  time.  I 
wonder  who  that  was,  Maud.  Nonsense,  child,  it 
couldn't  have  been  an  American.  She  was  so  polite. 
Now  try  and  not  feel  nervous.  Oh,  dear!  I  quite 
forget — which  glove  ought  one  to  take  off?  Or 
is  it  neither?  Well,  it's  too  late  now,  anyhow. 
Have  you  got  the  card?  Well,  have  it  ready. 
There  now,  give  it  to  that  man,  and  he'll  arrange 
your  train.  And  don't  forget  you  must  back  out. 


Well,  I  do  think  some  one  might  have  come  in 
to  see  our  dresses.  No  one  but  that  dreadful  Cap- 
tain Lambert.  Who  asked  him  to  come,  I  wonder? 
Don't  contradict,  child.  You  ought  to  be  very 
grateful  to  me  for  telling  you  whom  you  can  know. 
Going  about  getting  girls  to  fall  in  love  with  him, 
when  he's  no  money.  But  you're  not — not  a  bit. 
You're  just  one  of  those  revolting  daughters  they 
write  about  in  the  magazines.  You  know  I  want 
you  to  marry  Lord  Asterisk,  and  if  you'd  given 
him  any  encouragement,  he'd  have  come  to-day. 
Well,  you  oughtn't  to  hate  him.  The  Bible  says  we 
are  to  love  our  enemies,  and  he  isn't  your  enemy. 
So  you  ought  to  love  him  all  the  more.  No,  I  don't 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  29 

want  to  be  kissed,  thank  you.  I  don't  like  that  sort 
of  pretended  affection  when  you  won't  do  what  I 
tell  you.  You've  spoilt  my  whole  pleasure  to-day, 
contradicting  everything  I  say,  and  I'm  sure  I  shall 
look  horrible  in  the  photograph.  I  don't  know  what 
the  Queen  must  have  thought  of  you.  I  was  posi- 
tively ashamed  of  your  curtsey,  and  only  one  too. 
Miss  Smythe  managed  four,  so  why  couldn't  you? 
I've  no  patience  with  you.  And  if  Thackeray  did 
write  a  book  about  snobs,  it  doesn't  prove  that 
Dickens  didn't  too. 


The  Compact. 

GEORGE  BARLOW. 
From  "From  Dawn  to  Sunset" 

"!F  only  I  were  a  man,"  she  said, 

"What  wonderful  deeds  I'd  do ! 
With  a  general's  plume,  and  a  coat  of  red, 
I'd  harry  my  foes  till  my  foes  fell  dead, 

And  I'd  travel  the  wide  world  through. 
Sword  in  hand,  I'd  traverse  the  land 

(How  I  hate  this  ivory  fan!) — 
Hearts  should  ache,  and  hearts  should  break, 

If  only  I  were  a  man!" 

"If  only  I  were  a  girl,"  he  said, 

"How  pleasant  this  life  might  be. 
Lovely  dresses  of  Indian  red! 
Beautiful  bonnets  and  caps  on  my  head! 


30  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Beautiful  men  to  tea! 
How  I  would  flirt,  at  dinner,  dessert 

(Head-dress  of  ruby  and  pearl!) — 
That  would  be  brave.     What  a  time  I  would  have, 

If  only  I  were  a  girl." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  laughed  outright; 

Brown  eyes  laughed  into  the  gray. 
Then  he  said,  "And  why  should  the  dream  take 

flight  ? 
Marry  me,  darling,  and  we'll  unite 

Our  powers, — the  world  we'll  sway  I" 
Gray  eyes  smiled  back  their  "Yes"  to  the  brown 

(And  she  played  with  the  hated  fan)  — 
"I  think  that  I'm  glad  I'm  a  girl,"  she  said, 

"Now  I'm  loved  by  a  love  of  a  man!" 


Sally  Ann's  Experience. 

ELIZA  CALVERT  HALL. 

Copyright,  1907,  by  Little,  Brown  &  Co.  This  cutting  is 
from  "Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky,"  a  book  of  short  stories 
of  unusual  merit.  There  are  nine  stories  included  in  the 
volume,  most  of  them  having  that  dramatic  quality  which 
gives  them  special  value  as  recitations. 

COME  right  in  and  set  down.  I  was  jest  wishin' 
I  had  somebody  to  talk  to.  Take  that  chair 
right  by  the  door  so's  you  can  get  the  breeze." 

And  Aunt  Jane  beamed  at  me  over  her  silver- 
rimmed  spectacles  and  hitched  her  own  chair  a  little 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  31 

to  one  side,  in  order  to  give  me  the  full  benefit  of 
the  wind  that  was  blowing  softly  through  the  white- 
curtained  window,  and  carrying  into  the  room  the 
heavenliest  odors  from  a  field  of  clover  that  lay  in 
full  bloom  just  across  the  road. 

After  we  had  been  talking  some  time,  she  asked, 
"Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  Sally  Ann's  experience?" 

"Do  tell  me,"  I  said. 

"  'Twas  forty  years  ago,"  she  began,  musingly, 
"and  the  way  of  it  was  this.  Our  church  was  con- 
siderably out  o'  fix.  It  needed  a  new  roof.  Some 
o'  the  winder  lights  was  out,  and  the  floor  was  as 
bare  as  your  hand,  and  always  had  been.  The 
men-folks  managed  to  git  the  roof  shingled  and  the 
winders  fixed,  and  us  women  in  the  Mite  Society 
concluded  we'd  git  a  cyarpet.  We'd  been  savin'  up 
our  money  for  some  time,  and  we  had  about  twelve 
dollars.  I  ricollect  what  a  argument  we  had,  for 
some  of  us  wanted  the  cyarpet,  and  some  wanted  to 
give  it  to  furrin  missions,  as  we'd  set  out  to  do  at 
first.  Sally  Ann  was  the  one  that  settled  it.  She 
says  at  last — Sally  Ann  was  in  favor  of  the  cyar- 
pet— she  says,  'Well,  if  any  of  the  heathen  fails 
to  hear  the  gospel  on  account  of  our  gittin'  this 
cyarpet,  they'll  be  saved  anyhow,  so  Parson  Page 
says.  And  if  we  send  the  money  and  they  do  hear 
the  gospel,  like  as  not  they  won't  repent,  and  then 
they're  certain  to  be  damned.  And  it  seems  to  me 
as  long  as  we  ain't  sure  what  they'll  do,  we  might 
as  well  keep  the  money  and  git  the  cyarpet.  I 


32  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

never  did  see  much  sense  anyhow/  says  she,  'in 
givin'  people  a  chance  to  damn  theirselves/ 

"Well,  we  decided  to  take  Sally  Ann's  advice, 
and  we  was  talkin'  about  app'intin'  a  committee  to 
go  to  town  the  follerin'  Monday  and  pick  out  the 
cyarpet,  when  all  at  once  'Lizabeth  Taylor — she  was 
our  treasurer — she  spoke  up,  and  says  she,  'There 
ain't  any  use  app'intin'  that  committee.  The 
money's  gone/  she  says,  sort  o'  short  and  quick. 
'I  kept  it  in  my  top  bureau  drawer,  and  when  I 
went  for  it  yesterday,  it  was  gone.  I'll  pay  it  back 
if  I'm  ever  able,  but  I  ain't  able  now/  And  with 
that  she  got  up  and  walked  out  of  the  room,  before 
any  one  could  say  a  word,  and  we  seen  her  goin' 
down  the  road  lookin*  straight  before  her  and 
walkin'  right  fast. 

"And  we — we  set  there  and  stared  at  each  other 
in  a  sort  o'  dazed  way.  I  could  see  that  every- 
body was  thinkin'  the  same  thing,  but  nobody  said 
a  word,  till  our  minister's  wife — she  was  as  good 
a  woman  as  ever  lived — she  says,  'Judge  not/ 

"Them  two  words  was  jest  like  a  sermon  to  us. 
Then  Sally  Ann  spoke  up  and  says:  'For  the  Lord's 
sake,  don't  let  the  men-folks  know  anything  about 
this.  They're  always  sayin'  that  women  ain't  fit  to 
handle  money,  and  I  for  one  don't  want  to  give 
'em  any  more  ground  to  stand  on  than  they've 
already  got/ 

"So  we  agreed  to  say  nothin'  about  it,  and  all 
of  us  kept  our  promise  except  Milly  Amos.  She 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  33 

had  mighty  little  sense  to  begin  with,  and  havin' 
been  married  only  about  two  months,  she'd  about 
lost  that  little.  So  next  mornin'  I  happened  to  meet 
Sam  Amos,  and  he  says  to  me,  'Aunt  Jane,  how 
much  money  have  you  women  got  to'rds  the  new 
cyarpet  for  the  church?'  I  looked  him  square  in 
the  face,  and  I  says,  'Are  you  a  member  of  the 
Ladies'  Mite  Society  of  Goshen  Church,  Sam 
Amos?  For  if  you  are,  you  already  know  how 
much  money  we've  got,  and  if  you  ain't,  you've  got 
no  business  knowin'.  And,  furthermore,'  says  I, 
'there's  some  women  that  can't  keep  a  secret  and  a 
promise,  and  some  that  can,  and  I  can.'  And  that 
settled  him. 

"Well,  'Lizabeth  never  showed  her  face  outside 
her  door  for  more'n  a  month  afterwards,  and  a 
more  pitiful-lookin'  creatur'  you  never  saw  then 
she  was  when  she  come  out  to  prayer-meetin'  the 
night  Sally  Ann  give  her  experience.  She  set  'way 
back  in  the  church,  and  she  was  as  pale  and  peaked 
as  if  she  had  been  through  a  siege  of  typhoid.  I 
ricollect  it  all  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday.  We  sung 
'Sweet  Hour  of  Prayer,'  and  Parson  Page  prayed, 
and  then  called  on  the  brethren  to  say  anything  they 
might  feel  called  on  to  say  concernin'  their  exper- 
ience in  the  past  week.  Old  Uncle  Jim  Matthews 
begun  to  clear  his  throat,  and  I  knew,  as  well  as  I 
knew  my  name,  he  was  fixin'  to  git  up  and  tell  how 
precious  the  Lord  had  been  to  his  soul,  jest  like 
he'd  been  doin'  every  Wednesday  night  for  twenty 


34  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

years.  But  before  he  got  started,  here  come  'Liza- 
beth  walkin'  down  the  side  aisle  and  stopped  right 
in  front  o'  the  pulpit. 

'  'I've  somethin'  to  say/  she  says.  'It's  been  on 
my  mind  till  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  I've  got 
to  tell  it,  or  I'll  go  crazy.  It  was  me  that  took  that 
cyarpet  money.  I  only  meant  to  borrow  it.  I 
thought  sure  I'd  be  able  to  pay  it  back  before  it  was 
wanted.  But  things  went  wrong,  and  I  ain't  known 
a  peaceful  minute  since,  and  never  shall  again,  I 
reckon.  I  took  it  to  pay  my  way  up  to  Louisville 
the  time  I  got  the  news  that  Alary  was  dyinV 

"Mary  was  her  daughter  by  her  first  husband, 
you  see.  'I  begged  Jacob  to  give  me  the  money  to 
go  on/  says  she,  'and  he  wouldn't  do  it.  I  tried  to 
give  up  and  stay,  but  I  jest  couldn't.  Mary  was  all 
that  I  had  in  the  world;  and  maybe  you  that  has 
children  can  put  yourself  in  my  place,  and  know 
what  it  would  be  to  hear  your  child  callin'  to  you 
from  her  death-bed,  and  you  not  able  to  go  to  her. 
I  asked  Jacob  three  times  for  the  money/  she  says, 
'and  when  I  found  he  wouldn't  give  it  to  me,  I  said 
to  myself,  "I'm  goin'  anyhow."  I  got  down  on  my 
knees/  says  she,  'and  asked  the  Lord  to  show  me  a 
way,  and  I  felt  sure  Jie  would.  As  soon  as  Jacob 
had  eat  his  breakfast  and  gone  out  on  the  farm,  I 
dressed  myself,  and  as  I  opened  the  top  bureau 
drawer  to  get  out  my  best  collar,  I  saw  the  mission- 
ary money.  It  come  right  into  my  head/  says  she, 
'that  maybe  this  was  the  answer  to  my  prayer; 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


35 


maybe  I  could  borrow  this  money,  and  pay  it  back 
some  way  or  other  before  it  was  called  for.  It 
looked  like  the  Lord  was  leadin'  me  all  the  time/ 
says  she,  'but  the  way  things  turned  out  it  must  V 
been  Satan.  I  got  to  Mary  just  two  hours  before 
she  died,  and  she  looked  up  in  my  face  and  says, 
"Mother,  I  knew  God  wouldn't  let  me  die  till  I'd 
seen  you  once  more." 

"  'God  only  knows  what  I've  suffered/  says  she, 
'but  if  I  had  to  do  it  over  again,  I  believe  I'd  do  it. 
Mary  was  all  the  child  I  had  in  the  world,  and  I 
had  to  see  her  once  more  before  she  died.  I've 
been  a  member  of  this  church  for  twenty  years/ 
says  she,  'but  I  reckon  you'll  have  to  turn  me  out 
now.' 

"The  pore  thing  stood  there  tremblin'.  Old  Silas 
Petty  was  glowerin'  at  her  from  under  his  eye- 
brows, and  it  put  me  in  mind  of  the  Pharisees  and 
the  women  they  wanted  to  stone,  and  I  ricollect 
think-in',  'Oh,  if  the  Lord  Jesus  would  jest  come  in 
and  take  her  part!'  And  while  we  all  set  there 
like  a  passel  o'  mutes,  Sally  Ann  got  up  and 
marched  down  the  middle  aisle  and  stood  right  by 
'Lizabeth.  You  know  what  funny  thoughts  people 
will  have  sometimes. 

"Well,  I  felt  so  relieved.  It  popped  into  my  head 
all  at  once  that  we  didn't  need  the  Lord  after  all; 
Sally  Ann  would  do  just  as  well.  It  seemed  sort 
o'  sacrilege,  but  I  couldn't  help  it. 

"Well,  Sally  Ann  looked  around  as  composed  as 


36  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

you  please,  and  says  she,  'I  reckon  if  anybody's 
turned  out  o'  this  church  on  account  o'  that  miser- 
able little  money,  it'll  be  Jacob  and  not  'Lizabeth. 
A  man  that  won't  give  his  wife  money  to  go  to  her 
dyin'  child  is  too  mean  to  stay  in  a  Christian  church 
anyhow;  and  I'd  like  to  know  how  it  is  that  a 
woman  that  had  eight  hundred  dollars  when  she 
married  has  to  go  to  her  husband  and  git  down  on 
her  knees  and  beg  for  what's  her  own.  Where's 
that  money  'Lizabeth  had  when  she  married  you?' 
says  she,  turnin'  round  and  lookin'  Jacob  square  in 
the  face.  'Down  in  that  ten-acre  medder  lot,  ain't 
it, — and  in  that  new  barn  you  built  last  spring.  A 
pretty  elder  you  are,  ain't  you?' 

"Goodness  knows  what  she  would  'a'  said,  but 
jest  here  old  Deacon  Petty  rose  up.  And  says  he, 
'Brethren,' — and  he  spread  his  arms  out  and  waved 
'em  up  and  down  like  he  was  goin'  to  pray, — 
'brethren,  this  is  awful.  If  this  woman  wants  to 
give  her  religious  experience,  why,'  says  he,  very 
kind  and  condescendin',  'of  course  she  can  do  so. 
But  when  it  comes  to  a  woman  standin'  up  in  the 
house  of  the  Lord  and  revilin'  an  elder  as  this 
woman  is  doin',  why,  I  tremble/  says  he,  'for  the 
church  of  Christ.  For  don't  the  Apostle  Paul  say, 
"Let  your  women  keep  silence  in  the  church"  ?' 
•  "As  soon  as  he  named  the  Tostle  Paul,  Sally 
Ann  was  terrible  free-spoken.  And  when  Deacon 
Petty  said  that  she  jest  squared  herself  like  she 
intended  to  stand  there  till  judgment-day,  and  says 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  37 

she,  'The  Tostle  Paul  has  been  dead  ruther  too 
long  for  me  to  be  afraid  of  him.  And  I  never 
heard  of  him  app'intin'  Deacon  Petty  to  represent 
him  in  this  church.  If  the  Tostle  Paul  don't  like 
what  I'm  sayin',  let  him  rise  up  from  his  grave  in 
Corinthians  or  Ephesians,  or  wherever  he's  buried, 
and  say  so.  I've  got  a  message  from  the  Lord  to 
the  men-folks  of  this  church,  and  I'm  goin'  to 
deliver  it,  Paul  or  no  Paul,'  says  she.  'And  as  for 
you,  Silas  Petty,  I  ain't  forgot  the  time  I  dropped 
in  to  see  Maria  one  Saturday  night  and  found  her 
washin'  out  her  flannel  petticoat  and  dryin'  it 
before  the  fire.  And  every  time  I've  had  to  hear 
you  lead  in  prayer  since  then  I've  said  to  myself, 
"Lord,  how  high  can  a  man's  prayers  rise  toward 
heaven  when  his  wife  ain't  got  but  one  flannel  skirt 
to  her  name?  No  higher  than  the  back  of  his  pew, 
if  you'll  let  me  tell  it."  I  knew  jest  how  it  was/ 
said  Sally  Ann,  'as  well  as  if  Maria'd  told  me. 
She'd  been  havin'  the  milk  and  butter  money  from 
the  old  roan  cow  she'd  raised  from  a  little  heifer, 
and  jest  because  feed  was  scarce,  you'd  sold  her  off 
before  Maria  had  money  enough  to  buy  her  winter 
flannels.  I  can  give  my  experience,  can  I?  Well, 
that's  jest  what  I'm  a-doin'/  says  she;  'and  while 
I'm  about  it/  says  she,  Til  give  in  some  experience 
for  'Lizabeth  and  Maria  and  the  rest  of  the  women 
who,  betwixt  their  husbands  an'  the  Tostle  Paul, 
have  about  lost  all  the  gumption  and  grit  that  the 
Lord  started  them  out  with/ 


38  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"Job  Taylor  was  settiir  right  in  front  of  Deacon 
Petty,  and  I  reckon  he  thought  his  time  was  comin' 
next;  so  he  gets  up,  easy  like,  with  his  red  ban- 
danna to  his  mouth,  and  starts  out.  But  Sally  Ann 
headed  him  oft"  before  he'd  gone  six  steps,  and  says 
she,  'There  ain't  anything  the  matter  with  you,  Job 
Taylor;  you  set  right  down  and  hear  what  I've  got 
to  say.  I've  knelt  and  stood  through  enough  o' 
your  long-winded  prayers,  and  now  it's  my  time  to 
talk  and  yours  to  listen.' 

"And,  bless  your  life,  if  Job  didn't  set  down  as 
meek  as  Moses,  and  Sally  Ann  lit  right  into  him. 
And  says  she,  'I  reckon  you're  afraid  I'll  tell  some 
o'  your  meanness,  ain't  you?  And  the  only  thing 
that  stands  in  my  way  is  that  there's  so  much  to  tell 
I  don't  know  where  to  begin.  There  ain't  a  woman 
in  this  church/  says  she,  'that  don't  know  how 
Marthy  scrimped  and  worked  and  saved  to  buy  her 
a  new  set  o'  furniture,  and  how  you  took  the  money 
with  you  when  you  went  to  Cincinnata,  the  spring 
before  she  died,  and  come  back  without  the  furni- 
ture. And  when  she  asked  you  for  the  money,  you 
told  her  that  she  and  everything  she  had  belonged 
to  you,  and  that  your  mother's  old  furniture  was 
good  enough  for  anybody.  It's  my  belief,'  says 
she,  'that's  what  killed  Marthy.  Women  are  dyin' 
every  day,  and  the  doctors  will  tell  you  it's  some 
new-fangled  disease  or  other,  when,  if  the  truth 
was  known,  it's  nothin'  but  wantin'  somethin'  they 
can't  git,  and  hopin'  and  waitin'  for  somethin'  that 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


39 


"Sally  Ann  always  was  a  masterful  sort  of 
woman,  and  that  night  it  seemed  like  she  was  pos- 
sessed. The  way  she  talked  made  me  think  of  the 
Day  of  Pentecost  and  the  gift  of  tongues.  And 
finally  she  got  to  the  minister !  I'd  been  wonderin' 
all  along  if  she  was  goin'  to  let  him  off.  She 
turned  around  to  where  he  was  settin'  under  the 
pulpit,  and  says  she,  'Brother  Page,  you're  a  good 
man,  but  you  ain't  so  good  you  couldn't  be  better. 
It  was  jest  last  week/  says  she,  'that  the  women 
come  around  beggin'  money  to  buy  you  a  new  suit  of 
clothes  to  go  to  Presbytery  in;  and  I  told  'em  if  it 
was  to  get  Mis'  Page  a  new  dress,  I  was  ready  to 
give;  but  not  a  dime  was  I  goin'  to  give  toward 
puttin'  finery  on  a  man's  back.  I'm  tired  o'  seein' 
ministers  walk  up  into  the  pulpit  in  their  slick  black 
broadcloths,  and  their  wives  settin'  down  in  the 
pew  in  an  old  black  silk  that's  been  turned  upside 
down,  wrong  side  out,  and  hind  part  before,  and 
sponged,  pressed,  and  made  over  till  you  can't  tell 
whether  it's  silk,  or  caliker,  or  what.' 

"Well,  I  reckon  there  was  some  o'  the  women 
that  expected  the  roof  to  fall  down  on  us  when 
Sally  Ann  said  that  right  to  the  minister.  But  it 
didn't  fall,  and  Sally  Ann  went  straight  on.  'And 
when  it  comes  to  the  perseverance  of  the  saints  and 
the  decrees  of  God,'  says  she,  'there  ain't  many  can 
preach  a  better  sermon;  but  there's  some  of  your 
sermons,'  says  she,  'that  ain't  fit  for  much  but 
kindlin'  fires.  There's  that  one  you  preached  last 
Sunday  on  the  twenty-fourth  verse  of  the  fifth 


40  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

chapter  of  Ephesians.  I  reckon  I've  heard  about  a 
hundred  and  fifty  sermons  on  that  text,  and  I 
reckon  I'll  keep  on  hearin'  'em  as  long  as  there  ain't 
anybody  but  men  to  do  the  preachin'.  Anybody 
would  think/  says  she,  'that  you  preachers  was 
struck  blind  every  time  you  git  through  with  the 
twenty-fourth  verse,  for  I  never  heard  a  sermon  on 
the  twenty-fifth  verse.  I  believe  there's  men  in  this 
church  that  thinks  the  fifth  chapter  of  Ephesians 
hasn't  got  but  twenty- four  verses,  and  I'm  goin'  to 
read  the  rest  of  it  to  'em  for  once  anyhow.' 

"And  if  Sally  Ann  didn't  walk  right  up  into  the 
pulpit  same  as  if  she'd  been  ordained,  and  read 
what  Paul  said  about  men  lovin'  their  wives  as 
Christ  loved  the  Church,  and  as  they  loved  their 
own  bodies. 

'*  "Now/  says  she,  'if  Brother  Page  can  reconcile 
these  texts  with  what  Paul  says  about  women  sub- 
mittin'  and  bein'  subject,  he's  welcome  to  do  it. 
But,'  says  she,  'if  I  had  the  preachin'  to  do,  I 
wouldn't  waste  time  reconcilin'.  I'd  jest  say  that 
when  Paul  told  women  to  be  subject  to  their  hus- 
bands in  everything,  he  wasn't  inspired :  and  when 
he  told  men  to  love  their  wives  as  their  own  bodies, 
he  was  inspired ;  arid  I'd  like  to  see  the  Presbytery 
that  could  silence  me  from  preachin'  as  long  as'  I 
wanted  to  preach.  As  for  turniir  out  o'  the 
church,'  says  she,  'I'd  like  to  know  who's  to  do  the 
turnin'  out.  When  the  disciples  brought  that 
woman  to  Christ,  there  wasn't  a  man  in  the  crowd 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  4! 

fit  to  cast  a  stone  at  her ;  and  if  there's  any  man  now- 
adays good  enough  to  set  in  judgment  on  a  woman, 
his  name  ain't  on  the  rolls  of  Goshen  Church.  If 
'Lizabeth,'  says  she,  'had  as  much  common  sense  as 
she's  got  conscience,  she'd  know  that  the  matter  o' 
that  money  didn't  concern  nobody  but  our  Mite 
Society,  and  we  women  can  settle  it  without  any 
help  from  you  deacons  and  elders/ 

"Well,  I  reckon  Parson  Page  thought  if  he  didn't 
head  Sally  Ann  off  some  way  or  other,  she'd  go  on 
all  night;  so,  when  she  kind  o'  stopped  for  breath 
and  shut  up  the  big  Bible,  he  grabbed  a  hymn-book 
and  says : 

"  'Let  us  sing  "Blest  be  the  Tie  That  Binds."  ' 

'Twas  a  reg'lar  love-feast;  and  we  went  home 
feelin'  like  we'd  been  through  a  big  protracted 
meetin'  and  got  religion  over  again." 


The  Stuttering  Auctioneer. 

CHARLES  T.  GRILLEY. 

From  "Jingles  of  a  Jester."  Copyright,  1907.  Reprinted 
by  special  permission  of  the  author  and  of  the  publishers, 
Pearson  Brothers. 

I'M  nearly  c-crazy,  almost  w-w-wild, 
J've  been  so  s-s-since  I  was  a  ch-ch-child; 
To  all  things  else  I  h-h-have  been  b-b-blind, 
I've  had  j-j-just  one  th-th-thing  on  my  mind: 
I  w-w-want  to  be  an  auctioneer. 


42  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Th-th-there's    something    'bout    the    way    h-h-he 

stands 
And     pl-pl-pleads     and     g-g-gestures     with     his 

h-h-hands. 

No  m-m-matter  what  I  have,  I  deem 
M-m-my  g-g-greatest  joy,  my  p-p-proudest  dream, 
T-t-to  be  an  auctioneer. 

I  th-th-thought  one  day  I'd  t-t-try  my  hand ; 
So  bought  some  g-g-goods  and  t-t-took  my  stand 
Upon  a  d-d-dry-goods  box,  and  there 
I  st-st-started  on  my  way  for  f-f-fair 
To  be  an  auctioneer. 

"G-g-give  me  an  offer,"  first  I  said, 
"For  this  b-b-beautiful  walnut  f-f-folding-bed." 
T-t-two  dollars  was  its  c-c-cost  t-to  me ; 
Why,  they  r-r-ran  it  up  to  t-t-twenty-three. 
Oh,  lucky  auctioneer! 

I  th-th-thought  'twas  time  t-r-to  stop  them  there 

Or  soon  I'd  be  a  m-m-millionaire ; 

But  when  to  holler,  "S-S-Sold !"  I  tried, 

I  c-c-couldn't  s-s-say  it  if  I  d-d-died. 

Oh,  luckless  auctioneer! 

Each  bidder  cl-cl-claimed  he'd  b-bought  the  bed. 
"It's  g-g-getting  too  h-hot  for  me,"  I  said; 
So  d-d-down  I  j-j- jumped,  ran  to  a  well, 


FOR  READING  AND   SPEAKING. 


43 


L-1-leaped  in,  and   sh-sh-shouted  back,  "F-f-fare- 

well." 
Unhappy  auctioneer ! 

If  a  p-p-policeman  hadn't  heard  me  shout 
Wh-wh-when  I  disappeared,  and  f-f-fished  me  out, 
All  covered  with  moss  and  wr-wr-wringing  wet, 
I  g-g-guess,  by  gum,  I'd  b-b-been  there  yet, 
A  half-drowned  auctioneer. 

I  haven't  q-quit ;  oh,  no,  not  me ! 

I  don't  g-g-give  up  s-s-so  easily. 

I  trust  b-b-before  I  come  to  d-d-die 

And  go  up  y-y-yonder  in  the  sky, 

I'll  have  a  ch-ch-chance,  s-s-some  day,  from  dawn 

Till  night,  to  cry  "G-g-going!     G-g-gone!" 

Then  I  can  say  with  c-c-conscience  cl-cl-clear, 

"I  d-d-die  a  f-f-full-fledged  auctioneer." 


The  Groom's  Story. 
SIR  A.   CON  AN  DOYLE. 

From  "Songs  of  Action."     Copyright,  1898,  by  Double- 
day  &  McClure  Co. 

TEN  mile  in  twenty    minutes !      'E    done    it,  sir. 

That's  true. 
The  big  bay  'orse  in  the  further  stall — the  one  wot's 

next  to  you. 
I've  seen  some  better  'orses;  I've  seldom  seen  a 

wuss, 


44  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

But  'e  'olds  the  bloomin'  record,  an'  that's  good 
enough  for  us. 

We  knew  as  it  was  in  'im.  'E's  thoroughbred,  three 
part  ; 

We  bought  'im  for  to  race  'im,  but  we  found  'e  'ad 
no  'eart; 

For  'e  was  sad  and  thoughtful,  and  amazin'  dig- 
nified, 

It  seemed  a  kind  o'  liberty  to  drive  'im  or  to  ride ; 

For  'e  never  seemed  a-thinkin'  of  what  'e  'ad  to  do, 
But  'is  thoughts  was  set  on  'igher  things,  admirin' 

of  the  view. 
'E  looked  a  puffeck  pictur',  and  a  pictur'  'e  would 

stay, 
'E  wouldn't  even  switch  'is  tail  to  drive  the  flies 

away. 

And  yet  we  knew  'twas  in  'im ;  we  knew  as  'e  could 

fly; 
But  what  we  couldn't  git  at  was  'ow  to  make  'im 

try. 
We'd  almost  turned  the  job  up,  when  all  at  once 

one  day 
We  got  the  last  yard  out  of  'im  in  a  most  amazin' 

way. 

It  was  all  along  o'  master;  which  master  'as  the 
name 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  45 

Of  a  reg'lar  true  blue  sportsman,  an'  always  acts 
the  same; 

But  we  all  'as  weaker  moments,  which  master  'e  'ad 
one, 

An'  'e  went  and  bought  a  motor-car  when  motor- 
cars begun. 

I  seed  it  in  the  stable  yard — it  fairly  turned  me 

sick — 
A  greasy,  wheezy  engine  as  can  neither  buck  nor 

kick. 
You've  a  screw  to  drive  it  forrard,  and  a  screw  to 

make  it  stop, 
For  it  was  foaled  in  a  smithy  stove  an'  bred  in  a 

blacksmith  shop. 

It  didn't  want  no  stable,  it  didn't  ask  no  groom, 
It  didn't  need  no  nothin'  but  a  bit  o'  standin'  room. 
Just  fill  it  up  with  paraffin  an'  it  would  go  all  day, 
Which  the  same  should  be  agin'  the  law  if  I  could 
'ave  my  way. 

Well,  master  took  'is  motor-car,  an'  moted  'ere  an* 

there, 

A-frightenin'  the  'orses  an'  a-poisonin'  the  air. 
'E  wore  a  bloomin'  yachtin'  cap,  but  Lor' !   wot  did 

'e  know, 
Excep'  that  if  you  turn  a  screw  the  thing  would 

stop  or  go? 


46  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

An'  then  one  day  it  wouldn't  go.     'E  screwed  and 

screwed  again, 
But  somethin'  jammed,  an'  there  'e    stuck   in    the 

mud  of  a  country  lane. 

It  'urt  'is  pride  most  cruel,  but  what  was  'e  to  do? 
So  at  last  'e  bade  me  fetch  a  'orse  to  pull  the  motor 

through. 

This  was  the  'orse  we  fetched  'im;    an'  when  we 

reached  the  car, 
We  braced  'im  tight  and  proper  to  the  middle  of 

the  bar, 
And  buckled  up  'is  traces  and  lashed  them  to  each 

side, 
While  'e  'eld  'is  head  so  'aughtily,  an'  looked  most 

dignified. 

Not  bad  tempered,  mind  you,  but  kind  of  pained 

and  vexed, 
And  'e  seemed  to  say,  "Well,  bli'  me !  wot  will  they 

ask  me  next? 
I've  put  up  with  some  liberties,  but  this  caps  all 

by  far, 
To  be  assistant  engine  to  a  crocky  motor-car!" 

Well,  master  'e  was  in  the  car,  a-fiddlin'  with  the 

gear, 
And  the  'orse  was   meditatin',   an'   I   was  standin' 

near, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  47 

When  master  'e  touched  somethin' — what  it  was 

we'll  never  know — 
But  it  sort  o'  spurred  the  boiler  up  and  made  the 

engine  go. 

-"'Old  'ard,  old  gal!"  says    master,    and    "Gently 

then !"  says  I, 
But  an  engine  won't  'eed  coaxin'  an'  it  ain't  no  use 

to  try ; 

So  first  'e  pulled  a  lever,  an'  then  'e  turned  a  screw, 
But  the  thing  kept  crawlin'  forrard  spite  of  all  that 

'e  could  do. 

And  first  it  went  quite  slowly  and  the  'orse  went 

also  slow, 
But  'e  'ad  to  buck  up  faster  when  the  wheels  began 

to  go  ; 
For  the  car  kept  crowdin'  on  'im  and  buttin'  'im 

along, 
And  in  less  than  'alf  a  minute,  sir,  that  'orse  was 

goin'  strong. 

At  first  'e  walked  quite  dignified,  an'  then  'e  'ad  to 

trot, 
And  then  'e  tried  a  canter  when  the  pace  became 

too  'ot. 

'E  looked  'is  very  'aughtiest,  as  if  'e  didn't  mind, 
And  all  the  time  the    motor-car    was    pushin'  'im 

be'ind. 


$  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Now,  master  lost  'is  'ead  when  'e  found  'e  couldn't 

stop, 
And  'e  pulled  a  valve  or  somethin'  an'  somethin' 

else  went  pop, 
An'  somethin'  else  went  fizzywiz,  and  in  a  flash,  or 

less, 
That  blessed  car  was  goin'  like  a  limited  express 

Master  'eld  the  steerin'  gear,  an'  kept  the  road  all 

right, 
And  away  they  whizzed  and  clattered — my  aunt! 

it  was  a  sight. 
'E  seemed  the  finest  draught  'orse  that  ever  lived 

by  far, 
For  all  the  country  Juggins  thought  'twas  'im  that 

pulled  the  car. 

'E  was  stretchin'  like  a  grey'ound,  'e  was  goin'  all 

'e  knew; 
But  it  bumped  an'  shoved  be'ind  'im,  for  all  that  'e 

could  do; 
It  butted  'im  an'  boosted  'im  an'  spanked  him  on 

a'ead, 
Till  he  broke  the  ten-mile  record,  same  as  I  already 

said. 

Ten    mile    in    twenty    minutes!     'E    done    it,  sir. 

That's  true. 
The  only  time  we  ever  found  what  that  'ere  'orse 

could  do. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  49 

Some  say  it  wasn't  'ardly  fair,  and  the  papers  made 

a  fuss, 
But  'e  broke  the  ten-mile  record,  and  that's  good 

enough  for  us. 

You  see  that  'orse's  tail,  sir?  You  don't !  No  more 
do  we, 

Which  really  ain't  surprising  for  'e  'as  no  tail  to 
see; 

That  engine  wore  it  off  'im  before  master  made  it 
stop, 

And  all  the  road  was  littered  like  a  bloomin'  bar- 
ber's shop. 

And  master?  Well,  it  cured  'im.  'E  altered  from 
that  day, 

And  come  back  to  'is  'orses  in  the  good  old- 
fashioned  way. 

And  if  you  wants  to  git  the  sack,  the  quickest  way 
by  far 

Is  to  'int  as  'ow  you  think  he  ought  to  keep  a  motor- 
car. 


50  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


A  Scene  from  the  Shaughraun. 
DION  BOUCICAULT. 

Arrangement  by  Leland  Powers,  as  used  by  him  on 
the  Lyceum  platform. 

This  scene  introduces  the  following  characters:  Conn, 
the  Shaughraun,  a  reckless,  devil-may-care,  true-hearted 
young  vagabond,  who  is  continually  in  a  scrape  from  his 
desire  to  help  a  friend  and  his  love  of  fun;  his  mother, 
Mrs.  O'Kelly;  his  sweetheart,  Moya  Dolan,  niece  of  the 
parish  priest. 

It  is  evening.  Moya  is  alone  in  the  kitchen.  She  has 
just  put  the  kettle  on  the  fire  when  Mrs.  O'Kelly,  Conn's 
mother,  enters. 

Mrs.  O'K.  Is  it  yourself,  Moya?  I've  come  to 
see  if  that  vagabond  of  mine  has  been  round  this 
way. 

Moya.  Why  should  he  be  here,  Mrs.  O'Kelly? 
Hasn't  he  a  home  of  his  own? 

Mrs.  O'K.  The  Shebeen  is  his  home  when  he  is 
not  in  jail.  His  father  died  o'  drink,  and  Conn  will 
go  the  same  way. 

Moya.  I  thought  your  husband  was  drowned  at 
sea? 

Mrs.  O'K.    And  bless  him,  so  he  was. 

Moya.  Well,  that's  a  quare  way  o'  dying  o' 
drink. 

Mrs.  O'K.  The  best  of  men  he  was,  when  he 
was  sober — a  betther  never  dhrawed  the  breath 
o'  life. 

Moya.     But  you  say  he  never  was  sober. 


FOR  READING  AND   SPEAKING.  5! 

Mrs.  O'K.  Niver!  An'  Conn  takes  afther 
him ! 

Moya.  Mother,  I'm  af eared  I  shall  take  afther 
Conn. 

Mrs.  O'K.  Heaven  forbid,  and  purtect  you  agin 
him !  You  a  good  dacint  gurl,  and  desarve  the  best 
of  husbands. 

Moya.  Them's  the  only  ones  that  gets  the  worst. 
More  betoken  yoursilf,  Mrs.  O'Kelly. 

Mrs.  O'K.  Conn  niver  did  an  honest  day's  work 
in  his  life — but  dhrinkin',  an'  fishin',  an'  shootin', 
an'  sportin',  and  love-makin'. 

Moya.  Sure,  that's  how  the  quality  pass  their 
lives. 

Mrs.  O'K.  That's  it.  A  poor  man  that  sports 
the  sowl  of  a  gintleman  is  called  a  blackguard. 

(At  this  moment  Conn  appears  in  the  doorway.) 

Conn.  (At  left.)  Some  one  is  talkin'  about  me! 
Ah,  Moya,  darlin',  come  here.  (Business  as  if  he 
reached  out  his  liands  to  Moya  as  he  comes  forward 
to  meet  her,  and  passes  her  over  to  his  left  so  he 
seems  to  stand  in  centre  between  Moya  on  left  and 
Mrs.  O'Kelly  on  right.)  Was  the  old  mother 
thryin'  to  make  little  o'  me?  Don't  you  belave  a 
word  that  comes  out  o'  her!  She's  jealous  o'  me. 
(Laughing  as  he  shakes  his  finger  at  his  mother.) 
Yes,  ye  are!  You're  chokin'  wid  it  this  very  min- 
ute !  Oh,  Moya  darlin',  she's  jealous  to  see  my 
two  arms  about  ye.  But  she's  proud  o'  me.  Oh, 
she's  proud  o'  me  as  an  old  hin  that's  got  a  duck 


52  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

for  a  chicken.  Howld  your  whist  now,  mother! 
Wipe  your  mouth  and  give  me  a  kiss. 

Mrs.  O'K.  Oh,  Conn,  what  have  you  been 
afther?  The  polis  have  been  in  the  cabin  to-day 
about  ye.  They  say  you  stole  Squire  Foley's  horse. 

Conn.  Stole  his  horse !  Sure  the  baste  is  safe 
and  sound  in  his  paddock  this  minute. 

Mrs.  O'K.  But  he  says  you  stole  it  for  the  day 
to  go  huntin'. 

Conn.  Well,  here's  a  purty  thing,  for  a  horse  to 
run  away  wid  a  man's  characther  like  this !  Oh, 
Wurra !  may  I  niver  die  in  sin,  but  this  was  the  way 
of  it.  I  was  standin'  by  owld  Foley's  gate,  whin  I 
heard  the  cry  of  the  hounds  coming  across  the  tail 
of  the  bog,  an'  there  they  wor,  my  dear,  spread  out 
like  the  tail  of  a  paycock,  an'  the  finest  dog  fox  ye 
ever  seen  a-sailin'  ahead  of  thim  up  the  boreen,  and 
right  across  the  churchyard.  It  was  enough  to 
raise  the  inhabitints  out  of  the  ground !  Well,  as  I 
looked,  who  should  come  and  put  his  head  over  the 
gate  besoide  me  but  the  Squire's  brown  mare,  small 
blame  to  her.  Divil  a  word  I  said  to  her,  nor  she 
to  me,  for  the  hounds  had  lost  their  scent,  we  knew 
by  their  yelp  and  whine  as  they  hunted  among  the 
gravestones.  When  whist !  the  fox  went  by  us.  I 
leapt  upon  the  gate,  an'  gave  a  shriek  of  a  view- 
halloo  to  the  whip;  in  a  minute  the  pack  caught 
the  scent  again,  an'  the  whole  field  came  roaring 
past. 

The  mare  lost  her  head  entoirely  and  tore  at  the 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


53 


gate.  "Stop,"  says  I,  "ye  divil!"  an'  I  slipt  a  taste 
of  a  rope  over  her  head  an'  into  her  mouth.  Now 
mind  the  cunnin'  of  the  baste,  she  was  quiet  in  a 
minute.  "Come  home,  now,"  ses  I,  "aisy!"  an'  I 
threw  my  leg  across  her. 

Be  jabbers !  No  sooner  was  I  on  her  back  than — 
Whoo !  Holy  Rocket !  she  was  over  the  gate,  an' 
tearin'  afther  the  hounds  loike  mad.  "Yoicks !"  ses 
I ;  "come  back,  you  thafe  of  the  world,  where  you 
takin'  me  to?"  as  she  carried  me  through  the 
huntin'  field,  an'  landed  me  by  the  soide  of  the 
masther  of  the  hounds,  Squire  Foley  himself. 

He  turned  the  color  of  his  leather  breeches. 
"Mother  o'  Moses!"  ses  he,  "is  that  Conn,  the 
Shaughraun,  on  my  brown  mare  ?" 

"Bad  luck  to  me !"  ses  I,  "it's  no  one  else !" 

"You  sthole  my  horse,"  ses  the  Squire. 

"That's  a  lie !"  ses  I,  "for  it  was  your  horse  sthole 
me!" 

Moya  (laughing).  An'  what  did  he  say  to 
that,  Conn? 

Conn.  I  couldn't  stop  to  hear,  Moya,  for  just 
then  we  took  a  stone  wall  together  an'  I  left  him 
behind  in  the  ditch. 

Mrs.  O'K.    You'll  get  a  month  in  jail  for  this. 

Conn.     Well,  it  was  worth  it. 


54  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


Story  of  the  Gate. 

HARRISON  ROBERTSON. 

ACROSS  the  pathway,  myrtle- fringed, 
Under  the  maple,  it  was  hinged — 

The  little  wooden  gate; 
'Twas  there  within  the  quiet  gloam, 
When  I  had  strolled  with  Nelly  home, 

I  used  to  pause  and  wait. 

Before  I  said  to  her  good-night, 
Yet  loath  to  leave  the  winsome  sprite 

Within  the  garden's  pale; 
And  there,  the  gate  between  us  two, 
We'd  linger  as  all  lovers  do, 

And  lean  upon  the  rail. 

And  face  to  face,  eyes  close  to  eyes, 
Hands  meeting  hands  in   feigned  surprise, 

After  a  stealthy  quest, — 
So  close  I'd  bend,  ere  she'd  retreat, 
That  I'd  grow  drunken  from  the  sweet 

Tuberose  upon  her  breast. 

We'd  talk — in  fitful  style,  I  ween — 
With  many  a  meaning  glance  between 

The  tender  words  and  low; 
We'd  whisper  some  dear,  sweet  conceit, 
Some  idle  gossip  we'd  repeat, 

And  then  I'd  move  to  go. 


FOR  READING  AND 


"Good-night,"  I'd  say;    "Good-night—  good-by  !" 
"Good-night"  —  from  her  with  half  a  sigh  — 

"Good-night!"  "Good-night!"    And  then 
And  then  I  do  not  go,  but  stand, 
Again  lean  on  the  railing,  and  — 

Begin  it  all  again. 

Ah  !  that  was  many  a  day  ago  — 
That  pleasant  summer-time  —  although 

The  gate  is  standing  yet  ; 
A  little  cranky,  it  may  be, 
A  little  weather-worn  —  like  me  — 

Who  never  can  forget. 

The  happy  "End"?   My  cynic  friend, 
Pray  save  your  sneers  —  there  was  no  "end." 

Watch  yonder  chubby  thing  ! 
That  is  our  youngest,  hers  and  mine  ; 
See  how  he  climbs,  his  legs  to  twine 

About  the  gate  and  swing. 


Mr.  Bob  Sawyer's  Party. 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 
Arranged  from  "Pickwick   Papers." 

MR.  BOB  SAWYER  embellished  one  side  of  the  fire, 
in  his  first-floor  front,  early  on  the  evening  for 
which  he  had  invited  Mr.  Pickwick  to  a  friendly 
party;  and  his  chum  Mr.  Ben  Allen  embellished 


^6  ItUMUKUUS 

the  other  side.  The  preparations  for  the  reception 
of  visitors  appeared  to  be  completed. 

Notwithstanding  the  highly  satisfactory  nature 
of  these  arrangements,  there  was  a  cloud  on  the 
countenance  of  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer,  as  he  sat  by  the 
fire,  and  there  was  a  sympathizing  expression,  too, 
in  the  features  of  Mr.  Ben  Allen,  and  melancholy 
in  his  voice,  as  he  said,  "Well,  it  is  unlucky  that 
your  landlady  Mrs.  Raddle  should  have  taken  it  in 
her  head  to  turn  sour,  just  on  this  occasion.  She 
might  at  least  have  waited  till  to-morrow." 

"That's  her  malevolence,  that's  her  malevolence. 
She  says  that  if  I  can  afford  to  give  a  party,  I  ought 
to  be  able  to  afford  to  pay  her  confounded  'little 
bill/  " 

"How  long  has  it  been  running?" 

"Only  a  quarter,  and  a  month  or  so." 

Ben  Allen  coughed,  and  directed  a  searching 
look  between  the  two  top  bars  of  the  stove. 

"It'll  be  a  deuced  unpleasant  thing  if  she  takes  it 
into  her  head  to  let  out,  when  those  fellows  are 
here,  won't  it?" 

"Horrible,  horrible." 

Here  a  low  tap  was  heard  at  the  room  door,  and 
Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  looked  expressively  at  his  friend, 
and  bade  the  tapper  come  in;  whereupon  a  dirty, 
slipshod  girl,  in  black  cotton  stockings,  thrust  in 
her  head,  and  said,  "Please,  Mister  Sawyer,  Missis 
Raddle  wants  to  speak  to  you." 

Before  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  could  return  an  answer, 


FOR  READING  AND   SPEAKING. 


57 


this  young  person  suddenly  disappeared  with  a 
jerk,  as  if  somebody  had  given  her  a  violent  pull 
behind.  This  mysterious  exit  was  no  sooner  accom- 
plished, than  there  was  another  tap  at  the  door. 

Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  glanced  at  his  friend  with  a  look 
of  abject  apprehension,  and  once  more  cried, 
"Come  in." 

The  permission  was  not  at  all  necessary,  for, 
before  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  had  uttered  the  words,  a 
little  fierce  woman  bounced  into  the  room,  all  in  a 
tremble  with  passion,  and  pale  with  rage. 

"Now,  Mr.  Sawyer,  if  you'll  have  the  kindness 
to  settle  that  little  bill  of  mine  I'll  thank  you, 
because  I've  got  my  rent  to  pay  this  afternoon,  and 
my  landlord's  a-waiting  below  now."  Here  the 
little  woman  rubbed  her  hands  and  looked  steadily 
over  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer's  head  at  the  wall  behind  him. 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  put  you  to  any  inconven- 
ience, Mrs.  Raddle,  but— 

"Oh,  it  isn't  any  inconvenience.  I  didn't  want  it 
particular  before  to-day ;  leastways,  as  it  has  to 
go  to  my  landlord  directly,  it  was  as  well  for  you 
to  keep  it  as  me.  You  promised  me  this  afternoon, 
Mr.  Sawyer,  and  every  gentleman  as  has  ever  lived 
here  has  kept  his  word,  sir,  as  of  course  anybody  as 
calls  himself  a  gentleman  do."  Mrs.  Raddle  tossed 
her  head,  bit  her  lips,  rubbed  her  hands  harder,  and 
looked  at  the  wall  more  steadily  than  ever. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Raddle,  but  the  fact  is, 
that  I  have  been  disappointed  in  the  City  to-day." 


58  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"Well,  Mr.  Sawyer,  and  what  is  that  to  me,  sir?" 

"I— I— have  no  doubt,  Mrs.  Raddle,"  said  Bob, 
blinking  this  last  question,  "that  before  the  middle 
of  next  week  we  shall  be  able  to  set  ourselves  quite 
square,  and  go  on,  on  a  better  system,  afterwards." 

This  was  all  Mrs.  Raddle  wanted.  She  had  bus- 
tled up  to  the  apartment  of  the  unlucky  Bob,  so 
bent  upon  going  into  a  passion,  that,  in  all  prob- 
ability, payment  would  have  rather  disappointed 
her.  She  was  in  excellent  order  for  a  little  relaxa- 
tion of  the  kind,  having  just  exchanged  a  few  intro- 
ductory compliments  with  Mr.  Raddle  in  the  front 
kitchen. 

"Do  you  suppose,  Mr.  Sawyer,"  elevating  her 
voice  for  the  information  of  the  neighbors, — "do 
you  suppose  that  I'm  a-going  day  after  day  to  let 
a  fellar  occupy  my  lodgings  as  never  thinks  of  pay- 
ing his  rent,  nor  even  the  very  money  laid  out  for 
the  fresh  butter  and  lump  sugar  that's  bought  for 
his  breakfast,  nor  the  very  milk  that's  took  in  at 
the  street  door?  Do  you  suppose  as  a  hard-work- 
ing and  industrious  woman  which  has  lived  in  this 
street  for  twenty  year  (ten  year  over  the  way,  and 
nine  year  and  three-quarter  in  this  very  house)  has 
nothing  else  to  do  but  to  work  herself  to  death  after 
a  parcel  of  lazy,  idle  fellars,  that  are  always  smok- 
ing and  drinking  and  lounging,  when  they  ought  to 
be  glad  to  turn  their  hands  to  anything  that  would 
help  'em  to  pay  their  bills  ?" 

"My  good  soul,"  interposed  Mr.  Benjamin  Allen. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  59 

"Have  the  goodness  to  keep  your  observashuns 
to  yourself,  sir,  I  beg,"  suddenly  arresting  the  rapid 
torrent  of  her  speech,  and  addressing  the  third 
party  with  impressive  slowness  and  solemnity.  "I 
am  not  aweer,  sir,  that  you  have  any  right  to 
address  your  conversation  to  me.  I  don't  think 
I  let  these  apartments  to  you,  sir." 

"No,  you  certainly  did  not." 

"Very  good,  sir.  Then  p'r'aps,  sir,  as  a  med- 
ical studient,  you'll  confine  yourself  to  breaking  the 
arms  and  legs  of  the  poor  people  in  the  hospitals, 
and  will  keep  yourself  to  yourself,  sir,  or  there  may 
be  some  persons  here  as  will  make  you,  sir." 

"But  you  are  such  an  unreasonable  woman." 

"I  beg  your  parding,  young  man;  but  will  you 
have  the  goodness  to  call  me  that  again,  sir?" 

"I  didn't  make  use  of  the  word  in  any  invidious 
sense,  ma'am." 

"I  beg  your  parding,  young  man;  but  who  do 
you  call  a  woman?  Did  you  make  that  remark  to 
me,  sir?" 

"Why,  bless  my  heart !" 

"Did  you  apply  that  name  to  me,  I  ask  of  you, 
sir?" — with  intense  ferocity,  and  throwing  the  door 
wide  open. 

"Why,  of  course  I  did." 

"Yes,  of  course  you  did,"  backing  gradually  to 
the  door,  and  raising  her  voice,  for  the  special 
behoof  of  Mr.  Raddle  in  the  kitchen, — "yes,  of 
course  you  did !  And  everybody  knows  that  they 


60  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

may  safely  insult  me  in  my  own  'ouse  while  my 
husband  sits  sleeping  downstairs,  and  taking  no 
more  notice  than  if  I  was  a  dog  in  the  streets.  He 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself"  (sob)  "to  allow 
his  wife  to  be  treated  in  this  way  by  a  parcel  of 
young  cutters  and  carvers  of  live  people's  bodies, 
that  disgraces  the  lodgings"  (another  sob),  "and 
leaving  her  exposed  to  all  manner  of  abuse ;  a  base, 
faint-hearted,  timorous  wretch,  that's  afraid  to 
come  upstairs  and  face  the  ruffinh  creatures — that's 
afraid — that's  afraid  to  come!"  Mrs.  Raddle 
paused,  when  there  came  a  loud  double-knock  at  the 
street  door,  and  then  disappeared  into  the  back 
parlor. 

"Does  Mr.  Sawyer  live  here?"  said  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, when  the  door  was  opened. 

"Yes,  first  floor.  It's  the  door  straight  afore 
you,  when  you  gets  to  the  top  of  the  stairs." 

Mr.  Pickwick  and  his  two  friends  stumbled  up- 
stairs, where  they  were  received  by  the  wretched 
Bob,  who  had  been  afraid  to  go  down,  lest  he 
should  be  waylaid  by  Mrs.  Raddle. 

"How  are  you?  Glad  to  see  you, — take  care 
of  the  glasses."  This  caution  was  addressed  to 
Mr.  Pickwick,  who  had  put  his  foot  in  the  tray. 

"Dear  me,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Don't  mention  it, — don't  mention  it.  I'm 
rather  confined  for  room  here,  but  you  must  put 
up  with  all  that  when  you  come  to  see  a  young 
bachelor.  Walk  in.  You've  seen  Mr.  Ben  Allen 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  6l 

before,  I  think?"  Mr.  Pickwick  shook  hands  with 
2\!r.  Benjamin  Allen,  and  his  friends  followed  his 
example.  They  had  scarcely  taken  their  seats  when 
there  was  another  double-knock. 

"I  hope  that's  Jack  Hopkins!  Hush.  Yes,  it 
is.  Come  up,  Jack;  come  up." 

A  heavy  footstep  was  heard  upon  the  stairs,  and 
Jack  Hopkins  presented  himself. 

Here  another  knock  at  the  door  announced  the 
rest  of  the  company,  five  in  number,  among  whom 
there  was,  as  presently  appeared,  a  sentimental 
young  gentleman  with  a  very  nice  sense  of  honor. 
The  little  table  was  wheeled  out ;  the  bottles  were 
brought  in,  and  the  succeeding  three  hours  were 
devoted  to  a  round  game  at  sixpence  a  dozen. 

When  the  last  deal  had  been  declared,  and  the 
profit-and-loss  account  of  fish  and  sixpences 
adjusted  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties,  Mr.  Bob 
Sawyer  rang  for  supper,  and  the  visitors  squeezed 
themselves  into  corners  while  it  was  getting  ready. 

It  was  not  so  easily  got  ready  as  some  people 
may  imagine.  First  of  all,  it  was  necessary  to 
awaken  the  girl,  who  had  fallen  asleep  with  her 
face  on  the  kitchen  table ;  this  took  time,  and,  even 
when  she  did  answer  the  bell,  another  quarter  of 
an  hour  was  consumed  in  fruitless  endeavors  to 
impart  to  her  a  distant  glimmering  of  reason.  The 
man  to  whom  the  order  for  the  oysters  had  been 
sent  had  not  been  told  to  open  them;  it  is  a  very 
difficult  thing  to  open  an  oyster  with  a  limp  knife 


6?  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

or  a  two-pronged  fork,  and  very  little  was  done  in 
this  way.  Very  little  of  the  beef  was  done  either; 
and  the  ham  (which  was  also  from  the  German 
sausage-shop  round  the  corner)  was  in  a  similar 
predicament.  However,  there  was  plenty  of  porter 
in  a  tin  can ;  and  the  cheese  went  a  great  way,  for 
it  was  very  strong. 

After  supper  more  bottles  were  put  upon  the 
table,  together  with  a  paper  of  cigars.  Then  there 
was  an  awful  pause;  and  this  awful  pause  was 
occasioned  by  an  embarrassing  occurrence. 

The  fact  is,  the  girl  was  washing  the  glasses. 
The  establishment  boasted  four ;  which  is  not  men- 
tioned to  its  disparagement,  for  there  never  was  a 
lodging-house  yet  that  was  not  short  of  glasses. 

Having  washed  the  glasses  the  girl  brought  them 
back.  The  sight  of  the  tumblers  restored  Bob  to  a 
degree  of  equanimity  he  had  not  possessed  since 
his  interview  with  his  landlady.  His  face  brightened 
up,  and  he  began  to  feel  convivial. 

"Now,  Betsey,"  dispersing  the  tumultuous  little 
mob  of  glasses  the  girl  had  collected  in  the  centre 
of  the  table. — "now,  Betsey,  the  warm  water.  Be 
brisk,  there's  a  good  girl." 

"You  can't  have  no  warm  water." 

"No  warm  water!" 

"No;  Missis  Raddle  said  you  warn't  to  have 
none." 

"Bring  up  the  warm  water  instantly, — in- 
stantly !" 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  63 

"No,  I  can't.  Missis  Raddle  raked  out  the 
kitchen  fire  afore  she  went  to  bed,  and  locked  up 
the  kittle." 

"Never  mind, — never  mind.  Pray  don't  disturb 
yourself  about  such  a  trifle,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick, 
observing  the  conflict  of  Bob  Sawyer's  passions  as 
depicted  in  his  countenance;  "cold  water  will  do 
very  well." 

"My  landlady  is  subject  to  some  slight  attacks 
of  mental  derangement.  I  fear  I  must  give  her 
warning." 

"No,  don't." 

"I  fear  I  must.  Yes,  I'll  pay  her  what  I  owe  her, 
and  give  her  warning  to-morrow  morning."  Poor 
fellow !  how  devoutly  he  wished  he  could ! 

Mr.  Bob  Sawyer's  attempts  to  rally  under  this 
last  blow  communicated  a  dispiriting  influence  to 
the  company.  At  last  the  youth  with  the  nice  sense 
of  honor  felt  it  necessary  to  come  to  an  understand- 
ing on  a  dispute  with  Mr.  Hopkins ;  when  the  fol- 
lowing clear  understanding  took  place. 

"Sawyer." 

"Well,  Noddy." 

"I  should  be  very  sorry,  Sawyer,  to  create  any 
unpleasantness  at  any  friend's  table,  and  much  less 
at  yours,  Sawyer, — very;  but  I  must  take  this 
opportunity  of  informing  Mr.  Hopkins  that  he  is 
no  gentleman." 

"And  /  should  be  very  sorry,  Sawyer,  to  create 
any  disturbance  in  the  street  in  which  you  reside; 


64  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

but  I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  under  the  necessity  of 
alarming  the  neighbors  by  pitching  the  person  who 
has  just  spoken  out  o'  window." 

"I  should  like  to  see  you  do  it,  sir." 

"You  shall  feel  me  do  it  in  half  a  minute,  sir." 

"I  request  that  you'll  favor  me  with  your  card, 
sir." 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  sir." 

"Why  not,  sir?" 

"Because  you'll  stick  it  up  over  your  chimney- 
piece,  and  delude  your  visitors  into  the  false  belief 
that  a  gentleman  has  been  to  see  you,  sir." 

"Sir,  a  friend  of  mine  shall  wait  on  you  in  the 
morning." 

"Sir,  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  the 
caution,  and  I'll  leave  particular  directions  with 
the  servant  to  lock  up  the  spoons." 

At  this  point  the  remainder  of  the  guests  inter- 
posed, and  remonstrated  with  both  parties  on  the 
impropriety  of  their  conduct.  A  vast  quantity  of 
talking  ensued,  in  the  course  of  which  Mr.  Noddy 
gradually  allowed  his  feelings  to  overpower  nim, 
and  professed  that  he  had  ever  entertained  a  de- 
voted personal  attachment  toward  Mr.  Hopkins. 
To  this  Mr.  Hopkins  replied  that,  on  the  whole, 
he  preferred  Mr.  Noddy  to  his  own  mother ;  on 
hearing  this  admission,  Mr.  Noddy  magnanimously 
rose  from  his  seat,  and  profferred  his  hand  to  Mr. 
Hopkins.  Mr.  Hopkins  grasped  it ;  and  every- 
body said  the  whole  dispute  had  been  conducted  i.i 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  65 

a  manner  which  was  highly  honorable  to  both 
parties  concerned. 

"And  now,  just  to  set  us  going  again,  Bob,  I 
don't  mind  singing  a  song."  Hopkins,  incited  by 
applause,  plunged  at  once  into  "The  King,  God  bless 
him,"  which  he  sang  as  loud  as  he  could  to  a  novel 
air,  compounded  of  the  "Bay  of  Biscay"  and  "A 
Frog  he  would  a-wooing  go."  The  chorus  was  the 
essence  of  the  song;  and,  as  every  gentleman  sang 
it  to  the  tune  he  knew  best,  the  effect  was  very 
striking. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  the  chorus  to  the  first  verse 
that  Mr.  Pickwick  held  up  his  hand  in  a  listening 
attitude,  and  said,  as  soon  as  silence  was  restored: 
"Hush!  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought  I  heard 
somebody  calling  from  upstairs." 

A  profound  silence  ensued ;  and  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer 
was  observed  to  turn  pale. 

"I  think  I  hear  it  now.  Have  the  goodness  to 
open  the  door." 

The  door  was  no  sooner  opened  than  all  doubt 
on  the  subject  was  removed  by  a  voice  screaming 
from  the  two-pair  landing,  "Mr.  Sawyer!  Mr. 
Sawyer !" 

"It's  my  landlady.  I  thought  you  were  making 
too  much  noise. — Yes,  Mrs.  Raddle." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  this,  Mr.  Sawyer? 
Ain't  it  enough  to  be  swindled  out  of  one's  rent,  and 
money  lent  out  of  pocket  besides,  and  insulted  by 
your  friends  that  dares  to  call  themselves  men, 


66  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

without  having  the  house  turned  out  of  window, 
and  noise  enough  made  to  bring  the  fire-engines 
here,  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning? — Turn  them 
wretches  away." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves,"  said 
the  voice  of  Mr.  Raddle,  which  appeared  to  pro- 
ceed from  beneath  some  distant  bedclothes. 

"Ashamed  of  themselves!  Why  don't  you  go 
down  and  knock  'em  every  one  downstairs?  You 
would  if  you  was  a  man." 

"I  should  if  I  was  a  dozen  men,  my  dear,  but 
they've  the  advantage  of  me  in  numbers,  my  dear." 

"Ugh,  you  coward !  Do  you  mean  to  turn  them 
wretches  out,  Mr.  Sawyer?" 

"They're  going,  Mrs.  Raddle,  they're  going. — 
I  am  afraid  you'd  better  go.  I  thought  you  were 
making  too  much  noise. — They're  only  looking  for 
their  hats,  Mrs.  Raddle;  they  are  going  directly." 

Mrs.  Raddle  thrust  her  nightcap  over  the  ban- 
isters just  as  Mr.  Pickwick  emerged  from  the  sit- 
ting-room. "Going!  what  did  they  ever  come  for?" 

"My  dear  ma'am,"  remonstrated  Mr.  Pickwick, 
looking  up. 

"Get  along  with  you,  you  old  wretch !"  said  Mrs. 
Raddle,  hastily  withdrawing  the  nightcap.  "Old 
enough  to  be  his  grandfather,  you  villin !  You're 
worse  than  any  of  'em." 

Mr.  Pickwick  found  it  in  vain  to  protest  his  inno- 
cence, so  hurried  downstairs  into  the  street,  closely 
followed  by  the  rest. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


67 


The  visitors  having  all  departed,  in  compliance 
with  this  rather  pressing  request  of  Mrs.  Raddle, 
the  luckless  Mr.  Bob  Sawyer  was  left  alone,  to 
meditate  on  the  probable  events  of  the  morrow,  and 
the  pleasures  of  the  evening. 


Want  to  be  Whur  Mother  is. 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

From  "Pipes  o'  Pan  at  Zekesbury."  .  Copyright,  1888. 
By  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  the  Bobbs-Merrill 
Company. 

"WANT  to  be  whur  mother  is !     Want  to  be  whur 

mother  is !" 
Jeemses   Rivers !    won't   some  one  ever  shet  that 

howl  o'  his? 

That-air  yellin'  drives  me  wild ! 
Cain't  none  of  ye  stop  the  child? 
Want  yer  Daddy?    "Naw."    Gee  whiz  ! 
"Want  to  be  whur  mother  is !" 

"Want  to  be  whur  mother  is!     Want  to  be  whur 

mother  is !" 
Coax  him,   Sairy !     Mary,  sing  somepin   fer  him ! 

Lift  him,  Liz — 

Bang  the  clock-bell  with  the  key — 
Er  the  mcat-axl    Gee-mun-nee! 
Listen  to  them  lungs  o'  his ! 
"Want  to  be  whur  mother  is !" 


68  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"Want  to  be  whur  mother  is !     Want  to  be  whur 

mother  is !" 
Preacher  guess'll  pound  all  night  on  that  old  pulpit 

o'  his; 

'Pears  to  me  some  wimmin  jest 
Shows  religious  interest 
Mostly  'fore  their  fambly's  riz! 
"Want  to  be  whur  mother  is !" 

***** 

"Want  to  be  whur  mother  is !     Want  to  be  whur 

mother  is!" 
Nights  like  these  and  whipperwills  allus  brings  that 

voice  of  his ! 

Sairy !     Mary !    'Lizabeth ! 
Don't  set  there  and  ketch  yer  death 
In  the  dew — er  rheumatiz — 
"Want  to  be  whur  mother  is !" 

Spreading  the  News. 
From  the  Washington  Post. 

IN  front  of  the  Stoners'  house  two  little  girls, 
children  of  a  neighbor's,  were  playing  with  their 
dolls,  when  suddenly  the  younger  of  them  said : 

"I'll  tell  you  what— let's  play  funeral." 

"How?" 

"Well,  we  can  play  that  my  Josephine  Maude 
Angelina  dolly  died,  and  that  we  buried  her." 

"That  will  be  splendid!     Let's  have  her  die  at 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  69 

Immediately  after  the  death  of -Josephine  Maude 
Angelina  her  grief-stricken  mother  said: 

"Now,  Katie,  we  must  put  crape  on  the  door- 
knob to  let  folks  know  about  it.  You  run  over  to 
our  house  and  get  the  long  black  veil  mamma  wore 
when  she  was  in  mourning  for  grandpa." 

Katie  went  away  and  soon  returned  with  a  long 
black  mourning  veil.  It  was  quickly  tied  to  Mrs. 
Stoner's  front  door  bell ;  then  the  bereft  Dorothy's 
grief  broke  out  afresh,  and  she  wailed  and  wept  so 
vigorously  that  Mrs.  Stoner  put  her  head  out  of 
an  upper  window  and  said : 

"You  little  girls  are  making  too  much  noise  down 
there.  Mr.  Stoner's  ill  and  you  disturb  him.  I 
think  you'd  better  run  home  and  play  now.  My 
husband  wants  to  go  to  sleep." 

The  children  gathered  up  their  dolls  and  play- 
things and  departed,  sobbing  as  they  went. 

Mary  Simmons,  who  passed  them  a  block  above, 
but  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  supposing  the 
children  to  be  playing  at  sorrow,  was  shocked.  She 
came  opposite  the  house  to  observe  the  crape  on  the 
door-knob. 

"Mr.  Stoner  is  dead!"  she  said  to  herself. 
"Poor  Sam!  I  knew  he  was  ill,  but  I'd  no  idea 
that  he  was  at  all  dangerous.  I  must  stop  on  my 
way  home  and  find  out  about  it." 

She  would  have  stopped  then  if  it  had  not  been 
for  her  eagerness  to  carry  the  news  to  those  who 


70  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

might  not  have  heard  it.  A  little  further  on  she 
met  an  acquaintance. 

"Ain't  heerd  'bout  the  trouble  up  at  the  Stoners', 
have  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"What  trouble?" 

"Sam  Stoner  is  dead.  There's  crape  on  the 
door-knob.  I  was  in  there  yesterday,  and  Sam  was 
up  and  round  the  house;  but  I  could  see  that  he 
was  a  good  deal  worse  than  he  or  his  wife  had  any 
idea  of,  and  I  ain't  much  s'rprised." 

"My !  I  must  find  time  to  call  there  before  night." 

Mrs.  Simmons  stopped  at  the  village  post-office, 
ostensibly  to  look  for  a  letter,  but  really  to  impart 
her  information  to  Dan  Wales,  the  talkative  old 
postmaster. 

"Heard  'bout  Sam  Stoner  ?"  she  asked. 

"No.  I  did  hear  he  was  gruntin'  round  a  little, 
but " 

"He  won't  grunt  no  more,"  said  Mrs.  Simmons, 
solemnly.  "He's  dead." 

"How  you  talk !" 

"It's  right.    There's  crape  on  the  door." 

"Must  have  been  dreadful  sudden !  Mrs.  Stoner 
was  in  here  last  evening,  an'  she  reckoned  he'd  be 
out  in  a  day  or  two  well  as  ever." 

"I  know.  But  he  ain't  been  well  for  a  long  time. 
I  could  see  it  if  others  couldn't." 

"Well,  well!  I'll  go  round  to  the  house  soon  as 
Mattie  comes  home  from  school  to  mind  the  office." 
The  news  was  spreading  now  from  another  source. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  ji 

Job  Higley,  the  grocer's  assistant,  returned  from 
leaving  some  things  at  the  house  full  of  indignation. 

"That  Mrs.  Stoner  ain't  no  more  feelin'  than  a 
lamp-post,"  said  Job  indignantly  to  his  employer. 
"There's  crape  on  the  door-knob  for  poor  Sam 
Stoner;  an'  when  I  left  the  groceries  Mrs.  Stoner 
was  cooking  a  joint  cool  as  a  cucumber,  an'  singin' 
'Ridin'  on  a  Load  of  Hay'  loud  as  she  could  screech; 
an'  when  I  said  I  was  sorry  about  Sam,  she  just 
laughed  and  said  she  'thought  Sam  was  all  right,' 
an'  then  if  she  didn't  go  to  jokin'  me  about  Tildy 
Hopkins!" 

Old  Mrs.  Peavey  came  home  with  an  equally 
scandalous  tale. 

"I  went  over  to  the  Stoners'  soon  as  I  heerd  'bout 
poor  Sam,"  s4ie~satfH-  "an'  if  you'll  believe  me,  there 
was  Mrs.  Stoner  hangin'  out  clothes  in  the  back 
yard.  I  went  roun'  to  where  she  was,  an'  she  says, 
jest  as  flippant  as  ever,  'Mercy!  Mrs.  Peavey, 
where'd  you  drop  from  ?' 

"I  felt  so  s'prised  and  disgusted  that  I  says,  'Mrs. 
Stoner,  this  is  a  mighty  solemn  thing,'  an'  if  she 
didn't  jest  look  at  me  an'  laugh,  with  the  crape  of 
poor  Sam  danglin'  from  the  front  door  bell-knob, 
an'  she  says,  'I  don't  see  nothing  very  solemn  'bout 
washin'  an'  hangin'  out  some  o'  Sam's  old  shirts 
an*  underwear  that  he'll  never  wear  again.  I'm 
goin'  to  work  'em  up  into  carpet  rags  if  they  ain't 
too  far  gone  for  even  that.' 

"  'Mrs.  Stoner,'  I  says,  'the  neighbors  will  talk 


;2  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

dreadfully  if  you  ain't  more  careful,'  an'  she  got 
real  angry,  an'  said  if  the  neighbors  would  attend  to 
their  business  she'd  attend  to  hers.  I  turned  an' 
left  without  even  going  into  the  house." 

The  Carbury  Weekly  Star,  the  only  paper  in  the 
village,  came  out  two  hours  later  with  this 
announcement : 

"We  stop  our  press  to  announce  the  unexpected 
death  of  our  highly  respected  fellow-citizen,  Mr. 
Samuel  Stoner,  this  afternoon.  A  more  extended 
notice  will  appear  next  week." 

"Unexpected!  I  should  say  so!"  said  Mr. 
Samuel  Stoner  in  growing  wrath  and  amazement  as 
he  read  this  announcement  in  the  paper. 

"There  is  the  minister  coming  in  at  the  gate," 
interrupted  his  wife.  "Do  calm  down,  Sam.  He's 
coming  to  make  arrangements  for  the  funeral,  I 
suppose.  How  ridiculous !" 

Mr.  Havens,  the  minister,  was  surprised  when 
Mr.  Stoner  himself  opened  the  door  and  said : 

"Come  right  in,  pastor;  come  right  in.  My 
wife's  busy,  but  I'll  give  you  the  main  points  myself 
if  you  want  to  go  ahead  with  the  funeral." 

For  the  first  time  he  saw  the  crape,  and,  taking 
it  into  the  house,  he  called  to  his  wife  for  an  expla- 
nation. Later  they  heard  Dorothy  Dean's  childish 
voice  calling: 

"Please,  Miss  Stoner,  Kate  and  I  left  mamma's 
old  black  veil  tied  to  your  door-knob  when  we  were 
playing  over  here,  and  I'd  like  to  have  it  again." 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  73 

When   the   Summer  Boarders  Come. 
NIXON  WATERMAN. 

From  "A  Book  of  Verses."    Copyright,  1900.    By  special 
permission  of  the  publishers,  Forbes  &  Co. 

YES,  June  is  here,  an'  now,  by  jing!  it  won't  be  long 

until 
Our  good,   old-fashioned  neighborhood,   'at  seems 

so  kind  o'  still 
An'  solemn-like  at  times,  as  though  the  world  had 

shut  us  in, 
'LI  sort  o'  waken  from  her  dream  an'  stir  herself 

agin. 
The  medder's  full  o'  daisies  an'  the  trees  is  full  o' 

bloom  ; 

An'  after  dark  the  fireflies  is  sparkin'  in  the  gloom ; 
The  birds  is  busy  buildin'  nests,  the  hives  is  full  o' 

hum ; 
It's  jes'  about  the  season  when  the  summer  boarders 

come. 

Peculiar  lot  o'  people  is  the  ones  'at  come  from 

town, 
They're  full  o'  funny  notions,  but  they  plank  the 

money  down. 
It  don't  much  matter  what  they  git  ner  what  they 

have  to  pay, — 
Jes'  give  'em  lots  o'  buttermilk  an'  let  'em  have 

their  way. 


74 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


'Pears  's  if  they  yearn  fer  scenery  an'  never  git 

enough 
O'    sunsets    an'    o'    moonlight   nights,    an'    highty- 

tighty  stuff ; 
But  sence  they  pay  me   fer  it,  why,  I'm  keepin' 

mighty  mum; 
You'll    find    me    diplermatic    when    the    summer 

boarders  come. 

One  year  I  thought  I'd  please  'em,  so  I  spent  a  good 
big  pile 

A-buyin'  tony  fixin's  an'  a-slingin'  on  the  style. 

I  painted  up  the  house  an'  barn  an'  built  a  picket 
fence, 

"All  moderrun  conveniences"  I  planned  at  big 
expense. 

I  got  some  patent  foldin'-beds  an'  a  pianner,  too. 

An'  tried  to  make  the  place  appear  like  city  man- 
sions do; 

But  when  the  folks  come — jimmy  ! — they  wouldn't 
stop  a  day ; 

Such  "comforts"  made  'em  tired,  so  they'd  up  an' 
go  away. 

So  then  I  scraped  the  paint  all  off  the  fence  an' 

barn  an'  house, 
An'  cast  aside  my  nice  store  clothes  fer  overalls  an' 

blouse. 
In  place  o'  every  door-knob  I  contrived  a  wooden 

latch, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


75 


I  ripped  the  shingles  off  the  roof  an'  made  a  leaky 
thatch. 

The  patent  pump  I  traded  fer  a  windlass  an'  a  rope, 

The  bathroom  is  a  horse-trough  an'  a  hunk  o'  home- 
made soap. 

The  foldin'-beds  an'  likewise  the  pianner's  cheerful 
thrum — 

Oh,  we  hide  'em  in  the  attic  when  the  summer 
boarders  come. 

An'  sence  I  reconstructed    things    the    house    has 

overflowed 
With  summer  boarders  every  year — 'pears  like  the 

whole  world  knowed 
'At  here's  the  place  to  find  the  joys  'at's  near  to 

Nature's  heart, 
The  extry,  duplex,  simon-pure,  without  a  touch  o' 

art. 

Folks  like  my  homely  dialect  an'  ask  me  fer  to  spin 
Some  simple  yarn,  an'  by  an'  by  they'll  ask  fer  it 

agin  ; 
So  I've  jes'  got  to  jolly  'em;  but  say,  it's  tough,  by 

gum! 
Fer  me  who's  been   through   Harvard,  when  the 

summer  boarders  come. 


76  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

The  "New  Woman." 

"MR.    DOOLEY." 

THE  nex'  mornin'  Mrs.  Donahue  an'  Mollie  came 
to  his  dure.  "Get  up,"  says  Mrs.  D.,  "an'  bring  in 
some  coal,"  she  says.  "Ye  drowsy  man,  ye'll  be  late 
f'r  ye'er  wurruk."  "Divvle  the  bit  iv  coal  I'll 
fetch,"  says  Donahue.  "Go  away  an'  lave  me 
alone,"  he  says.  "Ye're  inthruptin'  me  dream." 
"What  ails  ye,  man  alive?"  says  Mrs.  Donahue. 
"Get  up."  "Go  away,"  says  Donahue,  "an'  lave  me 
slumber,"  he  says.  "The  idee  of  a  couple  iv  big, 
strong  women  like  you  makin'  me  wurruk  f'r  ye," 
he  says.  "Mollie'll  bring  in  the  coal,"  he  says.  "An' 
as  f'r  you,  Honoria,  ye'd  best  see  what  there  is  in 
th'  cupboard  an'  put  it  in  ye'er  dinner-pail,"  he  says. 
"I  heerd  the  first  whistle  blow  a  minyit  ago,"  he 
says.  "Ye  know  ye  can't  afford  to  lose  ye'er  job 
with  me  in  this  delicate  condition,"  he  says.  "I'm 
goin'  to  sleep  now,"  he  says.  "An',  Mollie,  do  ye 
bring  me  in  a  cup  iv  cocoa  an'  a  pooched  igg  at 
tin,"  he  says.  "I  ixpect  me  music  teacher  about  that 
time." 

"The  Lord  save  us  from  harm,"  says  Mrs.  Dona- 
hue. "The  man's  clean  crazy."  "Divvle  the  bit/' 
says  Donahue,  "I'm  the  new  man,"  he  says. 

Well,  sir,  Donahue  said  it  flured  thim  complete. 
They  didn't  know  what  to  say.  Mollie  was  game, 
an'  fitched  in  the  coal;  but  Mrs.  Donahue  got 
nervous  as  eight  o'clock  came  around.  "Ye're  not 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  77 

goin'  to  stay  in  bed  all  day  an'  lose  ye'er  job?"  she 
says.  "The  'ell  with  me  job,"  says  Donahue.  "I'm 
not  th'  man  to  take  wurruk  whin  they'se  industhrees 
women  with  nawthin'  to  do,"  he  says.  "Show  me 
th'  pa-apers,"  he  says.  "I  want  to  see  when  I  can 
get  an  eighty-cint  bonnet  f'r  two  an'  a  half."  He's 
that  stubborn  he'd  iv  stayed  in  bed  all  day,  but  the 
good  woman  weakened.  "Come,"  she  says,  "don't 
be  foolish,"  she  says.  "Ye  wuddn't  have  th'  ol' 
woman  wurrkin'  in  the  mills,"  she  says.  "Th' 
ol'  woman !  Well,  that's  a  horse  iv  another  color," 
he  says.  "An'  I  don't  mind  tellin'  ye  th'  mills  is 
closed  down  to-day,  Honoria."  So  he  dressed  him- 
self an'  wint  out;  an'  says  he  to  Mollie,  he  says, 
"Miss  New  Woman,"  says  he,  "ye  may  find  wurruk 
enough  around  th'  house,"  he  says.  "Th'  ol'  man 
is  goin'  to  take  th'  ol'  woman  down  to  Holstead 
Sthreet  an'  blow  himself  f'r  a  new  shawl  f'r  her." 


Wet  Weather  Talk. 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

From  "Pipes  o'  Pan  at  Zekesbury."  Copyright,  1888. 
By  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  the  Bobbs-Merrill 
Company. 

IT  ain't  no  use  to  grumble  and  complain; 

It's  jest  as  cheap  and  easy  to  rejoice: 
When  God  sorts  out  the  weather  and  sends  rain, 

W'y,  rain's  my  choice. 


^g  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Men  giner'ly,  to  all  intents — 

Although  they're  ap'  to  grumble  some — 
Puts  most  their  trust  in  Providence, 

And  takes  things  as  they  come; 
That  is,  the  commonality 
Of  men  that's  lived  as  long  as  me, 
Has  watched  the  world  enough  to  learn 
They're  not  the  boss  of  the  concern. 

With  some,  of  course,  it's  different — 
I've  seed  young  men  that  knowed  it  all, 

And  didn't  like  the  way  things  went 
On  this  terrestrial  ball ! 

But,  all  the  same,  the  rain  some  way 

Rained  jest  as  hard  on  picnic-day; 

Er  when  they  railly  wanted  it, 

It  maybe  wouldn't  rain  a  bit ! 

In  this  existence,  dry  and  wet 

Will  overtake  the  best  of  men — 
Some  little  ski  ft  o'  clouds'll  shet 

The  sun  off  now  and  then ; 
But  maybe,  while  you're  wonderin'  who 
You've  fool-like  lent  your  umbrell'  to, 
And  want  it — out'll  pop  the  sun, 
And  you'll  be  glad  you  ain't  got  none ! 

It  aggervates  the  farmers,  too — 
They's  too  much  wet,  er  too  much  sun, 

Er  work,  or  waiting  round  to  do 
Before  the  plowin's  done; 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


79 


And  maybe,  like  as  not,  the  wheat, 
Jest  as  it's  lookin'  hard  to  beat, 
Will  ketch  the  storm — and  jest  about 
The  time  the  corn's  a-jintin'  out! 

These  here  cy-clones  a-foolin'  round — 
An  back'ard  crops — and  wind  and  rain, 

And  yit  the  corn  that's  wallered  down 
May  elbow  up  again ! 

They  ain't  no  sense,  as  I  kin  see, 

In  mortals,  sich  as  you  and  me, 

A-faultin'  Nature's  wise  intents, 

And  lockin'  horns  with  Providence! 

It  ain't  no  use  to  grumble  and  complain; 

It's  jest  as  cheap  and  easy  to  rejoice : 
When  God  sorts  out  the  weather  and  sends  rain, 

W'y,  rain's  my  choice. 

The  Joys  of  House-Hunting. 

HARVEY  PEAKE. 
From  the  National  Monthly.     Copyright,  1909. 

Miss  GLADYS  LUGGS  (who  is  soon  to  become  Mrs. 
Livingstone  Cheaply)  is  house-hunting  with  her  hus- 
band-to-be. 

"Now,  Livingstone,  let's  try  our  luck  here  at  the 
'Utopia  Apartments,'  and  for  goodness'  sake,  let  me 
do  the  talking  this  time.  You  men  don't  seem  to 
know  what  a  house  should  contain,  or  what  it 


go  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

should  cost.  Why,  you  had  almost  signed  a  lease  for 
that  last  one  before  I  could  interfere.  And  it  never 
would  have  done  in  the  world.  Yoi1  must  never 
take  the  first  thing  that's  offered  you,  because  there's 
almost  always  something  better  just  a  little  further 
on.  At  least  that's  a  woman's  view  of  the  matter." 
(To  the  janitor,  who  has  come  in  answer  to  their 
ring.)  "Are  there  any  vacant  flats  in  this  build- 
ing? You've  only  a  third-floor  flat?  Oh,  that's 
altogether  too  far  up.  Nevertheless,  we'll  look  at 
the  rooms."  (When  they  reach  them.)  "Why, 
these  are  nothing  but  closets — drawing-room  and 
dining-room?  Why,  they  are  not  big  enough  to 
turn  round  in !  I  should  feel  as  if  I  were  in  a  doll's 
play-house  all  the  time.  You  see  I've  never  lived 
in  flats.  Poor  papa  owned  his  own  house  in  the 
country,  and  I  am  used  to  large,  airy,  light  rooms. 
Is  that  all  you  have  to  show  us  ?  Well,  we  are  very 
much  obliged  to  you,  but  they  won't  do.  Good 
day." 

(As  they  emerge  onto  the  sidewalk  outside.)  "I 
could  never  get  along  with  the  other  tenants  in  that 
house  even  if  I  liked  the  rooms.  Did  you  notice  the 
curtains  on  the  first  floor  with  that  rubber  plant  rub- 
bering out  between?  You  didn't?  Well,  nothing 
of  that  kind  escapes  me.  Those  curtains  were  of 
Nottingham — now  mind  you,  Nottingham  curtains 
on  the  first  floor  of  a  first-class  apartment  house. 
Those  people,  I'll  venture  to  say,  are  ignorant 
upstarts  who  don't  know  the  difference.  I'll  bet 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  gl 

their  bookcases,  if  they  have  any  at  all,  are  filled 
with  uniform  sets  that  have  never  been  opened,  and 
there's  bric-a-brac  and  photographs  sitting  about  on 
everything  that  presents  sufficient  surface  to  hold 
them.  No  doubt  the  people  themselves  are  named 
Pimple  or  Dangle,  and  talk  of  little  else  than  the 
doings  of  the  smart  set  as  chronicled  by  the 
yellow  press. 

"Of  course  you  could  not  help  hearing  that 
woman  pounding  the  poor,  overworked  'Merry 
Widow'  waltz  upon  the  piano  on  the  second  floor. 
From  the  number  of  times  she  repeated  it  while 
we  were  there,  I  should  judge  that  she  gave  con- 
tinuous daily  performances.  I  can  imagine  her  a 
woman  of  about  forty,  with  uncertain  hair  and  a 
sharp  nose.  No,  I  could  never  get  along  there. 

"Here's  the  Talmo.'  Let's  see  what  they  have 
to  offer."  (To  janitor.)  "You  have  a  first-floor 
front?  Well,  that  sounds  alluring,  at  least.  May 
we  see  it?  Well,  the  paper's  atrocious  in  the  recep- 
tion  hall,  and  the  floors  are  terribly  scratched. 
Why,  Livingstone !  I  don't  see  how  you  can  like  it. 
Just  look  at  those  mantels.  You  know  our  furni- 
ture is  to  be  Mission  style,  and  these  mantels  are 
Louis  XV.  They  would  never  go  together  in  the 
world.  Oh,  it's  light,  yes,  but  other  things  are 
necessary,  too. 

"Now,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't,  Livingstone. 
Be  careful !  Just  because  the  janitor  raised  the 
window  to  see  what  the  noise  was  in  the  street 


82  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

below,  and  was  temporarily  attracted  to  something 
else,  you  had  no  right  to  take  advantage  of  his 
abstraction  and  try  to  kiss  me.  Suppose  he  had 
pulled  in  his  head  suddenly !  Now,  I  know  my  hat's 
awry,  and  my  ruching  mussed,  and  not  a  mirror 
in  the  flat  anywhere ! — There,  is  it  all  right  ?  Is 
the  veil  coming  down  off  the  rim  ? — Don't  love  you  ? 
Yes,  I  do,  really.  But  I  can't  keep  repeating  it 
over  and  over  when  we're  immersed,  head  over 
ears,  in  practical  things !  Now  don't  be  silly  and 
try  to  do  that  again. — There,  he's  getting  ready  to 
pull  in  his  head  and  turn  around."  (To  janitor.) 
"Yes,  we've  seen  everything.  We  thank  you  for 
showing  them  to  us,  but  they  won't  begin  to  do. 
•  The  views  from  the  windows  are  very  ugly, 
;  especially  that  back  wall  and  stable,  and,  of  course, 
in  the  summer  the  stable  would  make  the  flies 
dreadful.  Now  let's  go,  Livingstone.  Good 
morning." 

(Outside.)  "If  I  had  had  to  look  at  the  paper 
on  that  front  room  much  longer  I  should  have 
screamed.  And  I  didn't  like  the  look  of  the  janitor 
at  all ;  he  had  a  bad  eye.  You  noticed  it  ?  I'll  never 
be  satisfied  with  a  janitor  that  I  can't  dictate  to. 
That  will  have  a  great  deal  to  do  with  my  choice  of 
a  flat. 

"Here's  the  'Elite  Palace,'  but  it  doesn't  look  the 
part,  and  no  matter  how  nice  the  rooms,  I  could 
never  stand  that  name.  It  sounds  as  if  it  belonged 
to  a  country  millinery  emporium.  Imagine  having 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  83 

it  engraved  on  our  'At  Home'  cards.  I  can  see  our 
few  aristocratic  friends  raising  their  eyebrows 
when  they  encountered  it  thereon,  and  getting  out 
their  fountain-pens  to  cut  us  off  their  visiting  lists. 
You  know  we  can't  afford  to  lose  any  social  pres- 
tige. What  could  the  person  who  named  that  house 
have  been  thinking  of?  Everybody  seems  to  have 
been  fighting  shy  of  it,  just  as  we  have,  for  there 
are  very  few  curtains  at  its  windows,  and  they  are 
of  the  'I-got-mine-in-a-htirry'  kind. 

"Here's  the  'Sammarco,'  let's  see  what  it  offers. 
Oh,  look !  Castiron  dogs  on  each  side  of  the  door ! 
I  don't  like  that  to  begin  with.  Think  of  sitting 
alongside  one  of  those  cold  things,  on  a  summer 
evening,  when  it  comes  our  turn  to  assist  in  adorn- 
ing the  steps !  Yes,  I  know  you'd  be  on  the  other 
side  of  me,  to  offset  any  coldness  of  the  dogs,  but 
I  don't  fancy  cast-iron  dogs  either  from  an  artistic 
or  practical  view-point;  yet  they  may  have  a  use. 
If  the  rooms  are  pretty,  however,  the  steps  may  be 
able  to  get  along  without  us.  Let's  take  a  look, 
anyhow." 

(In  an  aside  as  they  go  up  the  elevator.)  "Oh, 
I  like  this  house ;  everything  is  so  rich  and  swell, 
and  the  empty  flat  is  on  the  second  floor,  too. 
That's  really  the  best  floor  of  all.  You're  rid  of 
all  the  street  annoyances,  and  yet  are  not  incon- 
veniently high — Oh,  what  perfectly  lovely  rooms! 
Don't  you  love  that  olive  burlap  in  the  halls?  And 
what  beautiful  windows,  and  what  a  good  view 


84  HUMOROUS  SELECT  I  OX  S 

down  that  tree-shaded  street !  Livingstone,  I'm 
delighted  with  them,  but  I  sha'n't  let  the  janitor 
know  it,  that  would  affect  the  price.  I'll  pretend  I 
don't  like  them." 

(To  the  janitor.)  "Yes,  the  rooms  are  not  bad, 
but  they  are  quite  crowded,  and  there  are  too  many 
windows  to  drape  and  keep  clean,  and  I'm  not  par- 
ticularly fond  of  the  neighborhood,  and — and — 
what  else  was  it  I  objected  to,  Livingstone?  Oh, 
yes,  there's  no  room  for  a  baby  grand  piano." 
(Aside.)  "Of  course  we  haven't  any,  and  never 
expect  to  have  any,  but  if,  by  any  chance,  one  should 
some  day  come  into  our  possession,  where  would 
we  put  it?"  (Aloud.)  "Oh,  yes,  janitor,  by  the 
way,  what  is  the  rental  of  this  flat? — How's  that? 
Say  it  again,  slowly,  please.  Eighty  dollars? — You 
mean  eighty  dollars  per  month?  You  are  not  mis- 
taken? Be  sure  before  you  go  any  further.  Eighty 

dollars!  Eighty  dollars!  H-m "  (Suddenly 

jerking  her  husband-to-be  into  the  hall.)  "Living- 
stone, what  in  the  world  are  you  waiting  for  ?  Why 
don't  you  come  on?  If  we  stay  much  longer  we'll 
owe  two  dollars  rent  before  we've  decided  not  to 
take  the  flat!" 

(As  they  go  out  the  door.)  "Get  over  on  the 
other  side,  please,  I  just  want  to  kick  this  iron  dog 
as  I  go  by.  Take  that !  and  that,  you  wretch ! 
There,  I  feel  better  now.  I've  found  out  what  you 
were  put  there  for.  Eighty  dollars !  and  your 
salary  is  seventy-five.  I  wonder  what  we  would 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  85 

cat  and  wear,  and  where  the  installment  people 
would  come  in ! 

"Now,  let's  pass  by  all  these  vulgar,  unimportant- 
looking  places.  I'm  weak  enough  as  it  is  from  that 
last  encounter.  I  don't  want  all  the  starch  taken 
out  of  me  by  another  shock  of  a  similar  kind.  What 
do  you  say  to  trying  one  of  these  pretty  little  side 
streets?  All  right;  let's  go  down  this  one.  Why, 
here,  just  off  the  main  thoroughfare,  is  a  modest 
little  place  with  a  sign  out  that  tells  of  rooms  to 
rent.  It's  such  a  quaint  little  place  I  like  it  very 
much.  Let's  see  what  it  will  bring  forth." 

(To  a  sweet  old  lady  who  comes  to  the  door.) 
"Yes,  please,  we  will  look  at  the  rooms.  They  are 
on  the  second  floor? — What  a  dear,  grand,  old 
staircase !  And  what  big,  airy  rooms,  just  like 
ours  used  to  be  at  home.  And  Livingstone,  notice 
the  view !  Did  you  ever  see  anything  in  such  com- 
plete harmony?  Oh,  we  must  have  them;  don't 
you  think  so? — Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  like  them, 
too. — How  much  are  they? — Twenty  dollars,  and 
you'll  alter  anything  we  don't  like? — Well,  we'll 
take  them  and  we  don't  want  a  thing  changed.  Yes, 
draw  up  the  lease  at  once  and  we'll  sign  it." 

(As  the  old  lady  leaves  the  room.)  "Now,  Liv- 
ingstone, please  kiss  me.  These  rooms  invite  that 
sort  of  thing^but  it  was  horribly  out  of  order  in 
the  other  places.  I  should  never  have  felt  com- 
fortable or  domestic  in  any  of  those  other  little 
boxes,  but  these — oh,  double  joy — are  simply  per- 


86  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

feet !  And,  by  the  way,  there  isn't  a  janitor.  You'll 
have  to  be  janitor  yourself !  You  know  I  said  I'd 
never  take  a  flat  whose  janitor  I  couldn't  boss!" 


When  the  Train  Comes  In. 
NIXON  WATERMAN. 

From  "A  Book  of  Verses."    Copyright,  1900.    By  special 
permission  of  the  publishers,  Forbes  &  Co. 

WELL,  yes,  I  calkerlate  it  is  a  little  quiet  here 

Per  one  who's  b'en  about  the  world  an  'travelled  fur 

an'  near; 
But,  maybe  'cause  I  never  lived  no  other  place,  to 

me 
The  town  seems  'bout  as  lively  as  a  good  town 

ort  to  be. 

We  go  about  our  bizness  in  a  quiet  sort  o'  way, 
Ner  thinkin'  o'  the  outside  world,  exceptin'  wunst 

a  day 
We  gather  at  the  depot,  where  we  laff  an'  talk  an* 

spin 
Our  yarns   an'   watch  the  people   when  the   train 

comes  in. 

Si  Jenkins,  he's  the  jestice  o'  the  peace,  he  allers 

spends 
His  money  fer  a  paper  which  he  glances  through 

an'  lends 
To  some  the  other  fellers,  an'  we  all  take  turns  an' 

chat, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  87 

An'  each  one  tells  what  he  Vd  do  ef  he  was  this 

er  that; 

An'  in  a  quiet  sort  o'  way,  afore  a  hour's  gone, 
We  git  a  purty  good  idee  o'  what's  a-goin'  on, 
An'  gives  us  lots  to  think  about  until  we  meet  agin 
The  follerin'  to-morrer  when  the  train  comes  in. 


When  I  git  lonesome-like  I  set  aroun'  the  barber- 
shop 

Er  corner  groc'ry,  where  I  talk  about  the  growin' 
crop 

With  fellers  from  the  country;  an'  if  the  sun  ain't 
out  too  hot, 

We  go  to  pitchin'  hoss-shoes  in  Jed  Thompson's 
vacant  lot 

Behin'  the  livery-stable ;  an'  afore  the  game  is  done 

As  like  as  not  some  feller'll  say  his  nag  kin  clean 
outrun 

The  other  feller's  and  they  take  'em  out  an'  have  a 
spin  ; 

But  all  git  back  in  town  afore  the  train  comes  in. 

I  see  in  the  papers  'at  some  folks,  when  summer's 

here, 
Pack  up  their  trunks  an'  journey  to  the  seashore 

every  year 
To  keep  from  gettin'  sunstruck;   I've  a  better  way 

'an  that, 
For  when  it's  hot  I  put  a  cabbage-leaf  inside  my  hat 


88  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

An'  go  about  my  bizness  jes'  as  though  it  wasn't 

warm — 
Fact  is  I  ain't  a-doin'  much  sence  I  moved  off  my 

farm ; 
An'  folks  'at  loves  the  outside  world,  if  they've  a 

mind  to,  kin 
See  all  they  ort  to  of  it  when  the  train  comes  in. 

An'  yit  I  like  excitement,  an'  they's  nothin'  suits 

me  more 
'An  to  git  three  other  fellers,  so's  to  make  a  even 

four, 
'At  knows  the  game  jes'  to  a  T,  an'  spend  a  half  a 

day 

In  some  good  place  a-fightin'  out  a  battle  at  croquet. 
There's  Tubbs  who  tends  the  post-office,  an'  old 

Doc  Smith  an'  me 

An'  Uncle  Perry  Louden — it  Vd  do  you  good  to  see 
Us  fellers  maul  them- balls  aroun';    we  meet  time 

an'  agin 
An'  play  an'  play  an'  play  until  the  train  comes  in. 

An'  take  it  all  in  all  I  bet  you'd  have  to  look  aroun' 
A  good,  long  while  afore  you'd  find  a  nicer  little 

town 

'An  this'n  is.    The  people  live  a  quiet  sort  o'  life, 
Ner  carin'  much  about  the  world  with  all  its  woe 

an'  strife. 
An'  here  I  mean  to  spend  my  days,  an'  when  I  reach 

the  end 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  89 

I'll  say,  "God  bless  ye !"  an'  "Good-bye,"  to  every 

faithful  friend; 
An'  when  they  foller  me  to  where  they  ain't  no 

care  ner  sin, 
I'll  meet  'em  at  the  depot  when  the  train  comes  in. 

Saunders   McGlashan's   Courtship. 
DAVID  KENNEDY. 

SAUNDERS  MCGLASHAN  was  a  hand-loom  weaver 
in  a  rural  part  of  Scotland.  In  his  early  youth  his 
father  died  and  left  him  with  the  care  of  his 
mother  and  the  younger  children.  He  was  a  gray- 
haired  man  now.  The  bairns  were  married  and 
awa'.  His  old  mother,  on  whom  he  had  lavished 
the  most  tender  care,  was  lying  beside  his  father 
in  the  kirkyard.  He  returned  to  the  house  alone. 
He  sat  down  in  his  father's  chair,  crowned  with 
a  priceless  crown  of  deserved  blessing,  but  there 
was  no  voice  to  welcome  him. 

"What'll  I  dae?"  he  said.  "I  think  I'll  just  keep 
the  hoose  mysel'." 

But  when  winter  set  in,  his  trials  began.  One 
dark  morning  he  awoke  and  said :  "What  needs  I 
lie  gautin'  here?  I'll  rise  and  get  a  licht."  So  he 
got  his  flint  and  steel  and  tinder-box,  and  set  to 
work.  The  sparks  from  the  flint  and  steel  would 
not  ignite  the  tinder.  He  struck  vehemently,  missed 
the  flint,  and  drove  the  steel  deep  into  his  knuckles. 
"I  said  in  my  haste  this  mornin'  that  I  wud  hae  a 


£0  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

wife,  and  noo  I  say  in  my  solemn  leisure,  this  very 
day  I  shall  have  a  wife." 

Instinct  told  him  that  when  he  went  a-wooing  his 
best  dress  should  go  on;  and  looking  in  the  glass 
he  said :  "I  canna  gang  to  see  the  lassies  wi'  a 
beard  like  that."  The  shaving  done,  he  rubbed  his 
chin,  saying  with  great  simplicity,  "I  think  that 
should  dae  for  the  lassies  noo."  Then  he  turned 
and  admired  himself  in  the  glass,  for  vanity  is  the 
last  thing  that  dies  in  a  man. 

"Ye're  no  a  very  ill-looking  man  after  a',  Saun- 
ders;  but  it's  a'  very  weel  bein'  guid-lookin'  and 
well-drest,  but  what  woman  am  I  gaun  to  seek  for 
my  wife?" 

He  got  at  length  a  paper  and  pencil  and  wrote 
down  with  great  deliberation  six  female  names  in 
large  half-text,  carefully  dotting  all  the  "i's"  and 
stroking  all  the  "t's,"  and  surveyed  the  list  as  fol- 
lows: 

"That's  a'  the  women  I  mind  about.  There's  no 
great  choice  among  them ;  let  me  see,"  putting  on 
his  spectacles,  "it's  no  wise-like  gaun  courtin'  when 
a  body  needs  to  wear  specs.  Several  o'  them  I've 
never  spoken  till,  but  I  suppose  that's  of  no  conse- 
quence in  this  case.  There's  Mary  Young;  she's 
not  very  young  at  ony  rate.  Elspeth  McFarlane; 
but  she's  blind  o'  the  recht  e'e,  and  it's  not  neces- 
sary that  Saunders  McGlashan  should  marry  an 
imperfect  woman.  Kirsty  Forsyth;  she's  been 
married  twice  already,  an'  surely  twa  men's  enough 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  91 

for  ony  woman.  Mary  Morrison,  a  bonnie  woman; 
but  she's  gotten  a  confounded  lang  tongue,  an'  they 
say  the  hair  upon  her  heid's  no  her  ain  hair.  I'm 
certain  it's  her  ain  tongue  at  ony  rate!  Jeannie 
Millar,  wi'  plenty  o'  siller — not  to  be  despised. 
Janet  Henderson,  wi'  plenty  o'  love.  I  ken  that  she 
has  a  gude  heart,  for  she  was  kind  to  her  mither 
lang  bedfast.  Noo  which  o'  thae  six  will  I  go  to 
first?  I  think  the  first  four  can  bide  a  wee,  but 
the  last  twa — siller  and  love!  love  and  siller!  Eh, 
wadna  it  be  grand  if  a  person  could  get  them  baith ! 
but  that's  no  allowed  in  the  Christian  dispensation. 
The  patriarchs  had  mair  liberty.  Abraham  wud 
just  hae  ta'en  them  baith,  but  I'm  no  Abraham.  If 
I  bring  Janet  Henderson  to  my  fireside  and  she  sits 
at  that  side  darnin'  stockin'  and  I  sit  at  this  side 
readin'  after  my  day's  wark,  an'  I  lauch  ower  to 
her  an'  she  lauchs  ower  tae  me,  isna  that  heaven 
upon  earth?  A  body  can  get  on  in  this  warld 
withoot  siller,  but  they  canna  get  on  in  the  warld 
withoot  love.  I'll  gie  Janet  Henderson  the  first 
offer." 

lie  put  on  his  best  Sabbath-day  hat  and  issued 
forth  into  the  street.  Instantly  at  all  the  windows 
commanding  a  view  of  the  street  there  were  female 
noses  flattened  against  the  panes.  Voices  might  be 
heard  crying,  "Mither!  mither!  mither!  Come 
here  !  come  here  !  Look !  look  !  look  !  There's 
Saunders  McGlashan  wi'  his  beard  aff,  and  his  Sab- 
bath-day claes  on  in  the  middle  of  the  week !  He's 


92  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

lookin'  awful  melancholy.     I  wonder  wha's  dead." 

Quite  unconscious  of  the  sensation  he  was  creat- 
ing, he  walked  gravely  on  toward  the  house  of  Janet 
Henderson. 

"Lord  preserve  me,  Saunders,  is  that  you?  A 
sicht  o'  you's  guid  for  sair  een!  Come  awa  into 
the  fire.  What's  up  wi'  ye  the  day,  Saunders? 
Ye're  awfu'  weel  lickit  up,  ye  are.  I  never  saw  you 
lookin'  sae  handsome.  What  is't  ye're  after?" 

"I'm  gaun  aboot  seeking  a  wife." 

"Eh,  Saunders,  if  that's  what  ye  want,  ye  needna 
want  that  very  lang,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"But  ye  dinna  seem  to  understand  me;  it's  you 
I  want  for  my  wife." 

"Saunders  McGlashan !  think  shame  o'  yoursel', 
makin'  a  fool  o'  a  young  person  in  that  manner." 

"I'm  makin'  nae  fool  o'  ye,  Janet.  This  very  day 
I'm  determined  to  hae  a  wife.  You  are  the  first 
that  I  have  spoken  till.  I  houp  there's  nae  offence, 
Janet.  I  meant  nae  offence.  Eh !  oh !  very  well  ; 
if  that's  the  way  o't,  it  canna  be  helped;"  and, 
slowly  unfolding  the  paper  which  he  had  taken 
from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  "I  have  several  other 
women's  names  markit  down  here  tae  ca'  upon." 

She  saw  the  man  meant  business,  stopped  her 
spinning,  looked  down,  was  long  lost  in  thought, 
raised  her  head,  and  broke  the  silence  as  follows : 

"Saunders  (ahem!)  McGlashan  (ahem!),  I've 
given  your  serious  offer  great  reflection.  I've 
spoken  to  my  heart,  and  the  answer's  come  back 


FOR  READING  AND   SPEAKING. 


93 


to  my  tongue.  I'm  sorry  tae  hurt  your  feelin's, 
Saunders,  but  what  the  heart  speaketh  the  tongue 
repeateth.  A  body  maun  act  in  thae  matters  accord- 
ing to  their  conscience,  for  they  maun  gie  an  account 
at  the  last.  So  I  think,  Saunders, — I  think  I'll  just 
— I'll  just — "covering  her  face  with  her  apron — 
"I'll  just  tak'  ye.  Eh!  Saunders,  gae  'wa'  wi'  ye! 
gae  'wa'!" 

But  the  maiden  did  not  require  to  resist,  for  he 
made  no  attack,  but  solemnly  sat  in  his  seat  and 
solemnly  said:  "I'm  rale  muckle  obleeged  to  ye, 
Janet.  It'll  no  be  necessary  to  ca'  on  ony  o'  thae 
ither  lassies  noo !" 

He  rose,  thinking  it  was  all  over,  and  turned 
toward  the  door;  but  the  maiden  was  there  first, 
with  her  back  to  the  door,  and  said :  "Lord  pre- 
serve me,  what  have  I  done?  If  my  necbors  come 
tae  ken  that  I've  ta'en  you  at  the  very  first  offer, 
they'll  point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  me  and  say,  ahint 
my  back,  as  lang  as  I  live,  'That  woman  was  deein' 
for  a  man ;'  so  ye  maun  come  every  day  for  the 
next  month,  and  come  in  daylicht,  so  they'll  a'  see 
ye  comin'  an'  gaun,  and  they'll  say,  'That  woman's 
no  easy  courtit,  I  can  tell  ye.  The  puir  man's 
wearin'  his  shoon  aff  his  feet !'  For,  Saunders, 
though  I'll  be  your  wife,  Saunders,  I'm  determined 
to  hae  my  dues  o'  courtship  a'  the  same." 

She  lit  the  lamp  of  love  in  his  heart  at  last.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  long  life  he  felt  the  unmistak- 
able, holy,  heavenly  glow;  his  heart  broke  into  a 


0,4  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

full  storm  of  love,  and,  stooping  down,  he  took  her 
yielding  hand  in  his,  and  said:  "Yes,  I  wull;  yes, 
I  wull!  I'll  come  twice  every  day,  my  Jo!  my  Jo 
— Jaanet !" 

Before  the  unhappy  man  knew  where  he  was,  he 
had  kissed  the  maiden,  who  was  long  expecting  it. 
But  the  man  blushed  crimson,  feeling  guilty  of  a 
crime  which  he  thought  no  woman  could  forgive, 
for  it  was  the  first  kiss  he  had  gotten  or  given  in 
fifty  long  years,  while  the  woman  stood  with  a 
look  of  supreme  satisfaction,  and  said  to  him: 

"Eh!  Saunders  McGlashan,  isna  that  rale 
refreshin'?" 


"No,  Thank  You,  Tom." 
FREDERICK  E.  WEATHERLEY. 

THEY  met,  when  they  were  girl  and  boy, 

Going  to  school  one  day, 
And,  "Won't  you  take  my  peg-top,  dear?" 

Was  all  that  he  could  say. 
She  bit  her  little  pinafore, 

Close  to  his  side  she  came ; 
She  whispered,  "No!   no,  thank  you,  Tom," 

But  took  it  all  the  same. 

They  met  one  day,  the  selfsame  way, 
When  ten  swift  years  had  flown; 

He  said,  "I've  nothing  but  my  heart, 
But  that  is  yours  alone; 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


95 


And  won't  you  take  my  heart?"  he  said, 

And  called  her  by  her  name ; 
She  blushed,  and  said,  "No,  thank  you,  Tom," 

But  took  it  all  the  same. 

And  twenty,  thirty,  forty  years 

Have  brought  them  care  and  joy ; 
She  has  the  little  peg-top  still 

He  gave  her  when  a  boy. 
"I've  had  no  wealth,  sweet  wife,"  says  he, 

"I've  never  brought  you  fame;" 
She  whispers,  "No!  no,  thank  you,  Tom, 

You've  loved  me  all  the  same!" 


Chimmie  Fadden  Makes  Friends. 
E.  W.  TOWNSEND. 

SAY,  I'm  a  dead  easy  winner  to-day.  See?  It's 
a  fiver,  sure  'nough.  Say,  I  could  give  Jay  Gould 
weight  fer  age  an'  lose  'im  in  a  walk  as  a  winner. 
See?  How'd  I  collar  it?  Square.  See?  Dead 
square,  an'  easy.  Want  it  fer  a  story  ?  Why,  sure. 

Say,  you  know  me.  When  I  useter  sell  poipers 
wasn't  I  a  scrapper?  Dat's  right,  ain't  it?  Was 
dere  a  kid  on  Park  Row  I  didn't  do?  Sure.  Well, 
say,  dis  mornin'  I  seed  a  loidy  I  know  crossin'  de 
Bow'ry.  See?  Say,  she's  a  torrowbred,  an'  dat 
goes.  Say,  do  you  know  wot  I've  seed  her  done? 
I've  seed  her  feedin'  dem  kids  wot  gets  free  turk  on 
Christmas  by  dose  East  Side  missioners.  She's 


96  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

one  of  dem  loidies  wot  comes  down  here  an'  fixes 
up  old  women  and  kids  'coz  dey  likes  it.  Dat's 
right. 

Well,  say,  I  was  kinder  lookin'  at  'er  when  I  sees 
a  mug  wid  a  dyed  mustache  kinder  jolt  ag'in  'er, 
an'  he  raises  his  dicer  an'  grins.  See?  Say,  dat 
sets  me  crazy.  Lemme  tell  ye.  Remember  when 
der  truck  run  over  me  toes?  Well,  I  couldn't  sell 
no  poipers  nor  nutting  den.  See?  Say,  she  was 
de  loidy  wot  comes  ter  me  room  wid  grub  an'  reads 
ter  me.  Dat's  wot  she  done. 

Well,  I  runs  up  to  her  dis  mornin',  an'  I  says: 
"  'Scuse  me,  loidy,  but  shall  I  tump  der  mug?" 

She  was  kinder  white  in  de  gills,  but  dere  was 
fight  in  her  eye.  Say,  when  yer  scrap  yer  watches 
de  odder  felly's  eye,  don't  ye?  Dat's  right.  Well, 
say,  dere  was  fight  in  her  eye.  When  I  speaks  to 
her  she  kinder  smiles  an'  says,  "Oh,  dat's  you,  is 
it,  Chimmie?" 

Say,  she  remembered  me  name.  Well,  she  says: 
"If  you'll  tump  de  mug" — no,  dat  wasn't  wot  she 
says — "If  you'll  trash  de  cur  I'll  give  yer  some- 
thin',"  an'  she  pulled  out  her  wad  an'  flashed  119  a 
fiver.  Den  she  says  somethin'  about  it  not  being 
Christian,  but  de  example  would  be  good.  I  don't 
know  what  she  meaned,  but  dat's  straight.  See? 
Wot  she  says  goes,  wedder  I'm  on  or  not. 

"Can  you  trash  'im,  Chimmie?"  she  says. 

"Can  I?"  I  says.    "I'll  put  a  new  face  on  'im." 

Den  I  went  fer  'im.    Say,  I  jolted  'im  in  de  belly 


FOR  READ-ING  AND  SPEAKING.  07 

so  suddent  he  was  paralyzed.  See?  Den  I  give 
'im  de  heel,  an'  over  he  went  in  de  mud,  an'  me  on 
top  of  'im.  Say,  you  should  have  seed  us !  Well, 
I'd  had  his  odder  ear  off  if  de  cop  hadn't  snatched 
me. 

Say,  he  ran  me  in,  but  it  wasn't  ten  minutes 
before  she  come  dere  and  squared  me.  See?  When 
she  got  me  outside  she  was  kinder  laffin'  an'  cryin', 
but  she  give  me  de  fiver  an'  says,  "I  hope  de  Lord'll 
forgive  me,  Chimmie,  for  leadin'  yer  into  tempta- 
tion, but  yer  done  'im  brown." 

Dat's  right;  dem's  'er  very  words.  No,  not 
"done  'im  brown";  dat's  wot  dey  meaned — say, 
"trashed  'im  well."  Dat's  right.  "Trashed  'im 
well,"  was  her  very  words.  See? 

***** 

Say,  I  knowed  ye'd  be  paralyzed  wen  ye  seed  me 
in  dis  harness.  It's  up  in  G,  ain't  it?  Dat's  right. 
Say — remember  me  tellin'  ye  'bout  de  mug  I 
t'umped  fer  de  loidy  on  de  Bowery?  de  loidy  wot 
give  de  five  and  squared  me  wid  der  perlice  ?  Dat's 
right.  Well,  say,  she  is  a  torrowbred,  an'  dat  goes. 
See?  Dat  evenin'  wot  d'ye  tink  she  done?  She 
brought  'is  Whiskers  ter  see  me. 

Naw,  I  ain't  stringin'  ye.  'Is  Whiskers  is  de 
loidy's  fadder.  Sure. 

'E  come  ter  me  room  wid  der  loidy,  'is  Whiskers 
does,  an'  he  says,  says  'e,  "Is  dis  Chimmie  Fadden?" 
says  'e. 

"Yer  dead  on,"  says  I. 


t^8  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"Wot  t'ell?"  'e  says,  turning  to  'is  daughter. 
"Wot  does  de  young  man  say  ?"  'e  says. 

Den  de  loidy  she  kinder  smiled — say,  yer  otter 
seed  'er  smile.  Say,  it's  outter  sight.  Dat's  right. 
Well,  she  says,  "I  tink  I  understan'  Chimmie's 
langwudge,"  she  says.  "  'E  means  'e  is  de  kid  yuse 
lookin'  fer.  'E's  der  very  mug." 

Dat's  wot  she  says ;  somet'in  like  dat,  only  a  felly 
can't  just  remember  'er  langwudge. 

Den  'is  Whiskers  gives  me  a  song  an'  dance 
'bout  me  bein'  a  brave  young  man  fer  t'umpin'  der 
mug  wot  insulted  'is  daughter,  an'  'bout  'is  heart 
bein'  all  broke  dat  'is  daughter  should  be  doin'  mis- 
sioner  work  in  der  slums. 

I  says,  "Wot  t'ell;"  but  der  loidy,  she  says, 
"Chimmie,"  says  she,  "me  fadder  needs  a  footman,'' 
she  says,  "an'  I  taut  you'd  be  de  very  mug  fer  der 
job,"  says  she.  See? 

Say,  I  was  all  broke  up,  an'  couldn't  say  nottin', 
fer  'is  Whiskers  was  so  solemn.  See? 

"Wot's  yer  lay  now  ?"  says  'is  Whiskers,  or  some- 
t'in' like  dat. 

Say,  I  could  'ave  give  'im  a  string  'bout  me  bein' 
a  hard-workin'  boy,  but  I  knowed  der  loidy  was 
dead  on  ter  me,  so  I  only  says,  says  I : 

"Wot  t'ell?"  says  I,  like  dat,  "Wot  t'ell?"     See? 

Den  'is  Whiskers  was  kinder  paralyzed  like,  an' 
'e  turns  to  'is  daughter  an'  'e  says,  dese  is  'is  very 
words,  'e  says: 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING, 


99 


"Really,  Fannie,"  'e  says,  "really,  Fannie,  you 
must  interpret  dis  young  man's  langwudge." 

Den  she  laffs  an  says,  says  she : 

"Chimmie  is  a  good  boy  if  'e  only  had  a  chance," 
she  says. 

Den  'is  Whiskers  'e  says,  "I  dare  say,"  like  dat. 
See?  "I  dare  say."  See?  Say,  did  yer  ever  'ear 
words  like  dem  ?  Say,  I  was  fer  tellin'  'is  Whiskers 
ter  git  t'ell  outter  dat,  only  fer  der  loidy.  See  ? 

Well,  den  we  all  give  each  odder  a  song  an'  dance, 
an'  de  end  was  I  was  took  fer  a  footman.  See? 
Tiger,  ye  say?  Naw,  dey  don't  call  me  no  tiger. 

Say,  wouldn't  de  gang  on  de  Bow'ry  be  parylized 
if  dey  seed  me  in  dis  harness?  Ain't  it  great? 
Sure !  Wot  am  I  doin'  ?  Well,  I'm  doin'  pretty  well.  I 
had  ter  t'ump  a  felly  dey  calls  de  butler  de  first 
night  I  was  dere  for  callin'  me  a  heathen.  See? 
Say,  dere's  a  kid  in  der  house  wot  opens  der  front 
door  wen  youse  ring  de  bell,  an'  I  win  all  'is  boodle 
de  second  night  I  was  dere  showin'  'im  how  ter 
play  Crusoe.  Say,  it's  dead  easy  game,  but  der 
loidy  she  axed  me  not  to  bunco  de  farmers — der's 
all  farmers  up  in  dat  house,  dead  farmers — so  I 
leaves  'em  alone.  'Scuse  me  now,  dat's  me  loidy 
comin'  outer  der  shop.  I  opens  de  door  of  de  car- 
riage an'  she  says,  "Home,  Chames."  Den  I  jumps 
on  de  box  an'  strings  de  driver.  Say,  'e's  a  farmer, 
too.  I'll  tell  you  some  more  'bout  de  game  next 
time.  So  long. 


IOO  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

The  Shaving  of  Jacob. 
SAM  WALTER  Foss. 

From  "Dreams  in  Homespun."    Copyright,  1897,  by  Lee 
&  Shepard.     Reprinted  by  special  permission. 

I'VE  loved  that  man  for  forty  year, 

I've  loved  my  Jacob  dearly; 
There  ain't  no  wife  in  all  the  woiT 

Loved  husband  more  sincerely; 
I've  clung  to  him  through  good  an'  bad, 

Through  years  of  work  and  rest — 
An'  now  he's  cut  his  whiskers  off. 

An'  looks  like  all-possesst. 
There's  nothin'  pooty  in  this  worl', 

No  really  han'some  critter, 
For  Jacob's  cut  his  whiskers  off, 

An'  life  is  dark  an*  bitter. 

Them  whiskers,  once  as  red  as  fire, 

Have  long  been  white  as  snow 
An'  floated  like  a  snowy  flag 

In  all  the  winds  that  blow ; 
I'd  see  them  whiskers  for  a  mile, 

An'  though  I'm  growin'  blind, 
I'd  see  'em  in  the  distance  an' 

Knew  Jacob  was  behind. 
He'd  come  home  when  the  sun  went  down, 

Come  when  his  work  was  done, 
His  whiskers  red  with  sunset  an' 

Far  pootier  than  the  sun. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  iOI 

But  Jacob  when  his  mind  is  sot 

Won't  budge  for  prayers  or  tears, 
An'  though  I  begged  him  on  my  knees 

He  slashed  'em  with  the  shears. 
The  glory  has  departed  now, 

An'  it  has  broke  my  heart; 
For  Jacob's  nose  an'  chin  is  jest 

'Bout  half  an  inch  apart. 
His  face  looks  like  our  ol'  State  map 

Of  Massachusetts  there ; 
His  chin  is  jest  like  ol'  Cape  Cod 

A-pintin'  in  the  air. 

I've  loved  that  man  for  forty  year 

An'  journeyed  by  his  side, 
An'  allus,  everywhere  we  went, 

His  whiskers  were  my  pride. 
An'  now  he's  cut  his  whiskers  off, 

All  life  is  stale  an'  flat, 
An'  no  man's  left  in  all  the  woiT 

That's  worth  a-lookin'  at. 
I'd  like  to  die — but  then  I  won't — 

I  want,  when  I  am  gone, 
No  man  a-cryin'  roun'  my  grave 

Without  his  whiskers  on. 


I02  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

A  Scotch  Wooing. 

JEROME  K.  JEROME. 
From  "Three  Men  on  the  Bummel." 

A  STORY  is  told  of  a  Scotchman  who,  loving  a 
lassie,  desired  her  for  his  wife.  But  he  possessed 
the  prudence  of  his  race.  He  had  noticed  in  his 
circle  many  an  otherwise  promising  union  result 
in  disappointment  and  dismay,  purely  in  conse- 
quence of  the  false  estimate  formed  by  bride  or 
bridegroom  concerning  the  imagined  perfectibility 
of  the  other.  He  determined  that  in  his  own  case 
no  collapsed  ideal  should  be  possible.  Therefore  it 
was  that  his  proposal  took  the  following  form : 

"I'm  but  a  puir  lad,  Jennie;  I  hae  nae  siller  to 
offer  ye,  and  nae  land." 

"Ah,  but  ye  hae  yoursel',  Davie!" 

"An*  I'm  wishfu'  it  wa'  onything  else,  lassie.  I'm 
nae  but  a  puir  ill-seasoned  loon,  Jennie." 

"Na,  na;  there's  mony  a  lad  mair  ill-looking 
than  yersel',  Davie." 

"I  hae  na  seen  him,  lass,  and  I'm  just  a-thinkin' 
I  shouldna'  care  to." 

"Better  a  plain  man,  Davie,  that  ye  can  depend 
on  than  ane  that  would  be  a-speirin'  at  the  lassies, 
a-bringin'  trouble  into  the  hame  wi'  his  flouting 
ways." 

"Dinna  ye  reckon  on  that,  Jennie;  it's  nae  the 
bonniest  Bubbly-jock  that  maks  the  most  feathers 
to  fly  in  the  kailyard.  I  was  ever  a  lad  to  run  after 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  IO3 

the  petticoats,  as  is  weel  kent ;  an'  it's  a  weary  hand- 
fu'  I'll  be  to  ye,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"Ah,  but  ye  hae  a  kind  heart,  Davie !  an'  ye  love 
me  weel.  I'm  sure  on't." 

"I  like  ye  weel  enoo',  Jennie,  though  I  canna  say 
how  long  the  feeling  may  bide  wi'  me;  an'  I'm 
kind  enoo'  when  I  hae  my  ain  way,  an'  naethin' 
happens  to  put  me  oot.  But  I  hae  the  deevil's  ain 
temper,  as  my  mither  can  tell  ye,  an',  like  my  puir 
fayther,  I'm  a-thinkin',  I'll  grow  nae  better  as  I 
grow  mair  auld." 

"Ay,  but  ye're  sair  hard  upon  yersel',  Davie. 
Ye're  an  honest  lad.  I  ken  ye  better  than  ye  ken 
yersel',  an'  ye'll  mak  a  guid  hame  for  me." 

"Maybe,  Jennie !  But  I  hae  my  doots.  It's  a  sair 
thing  for  wife  and  bairns  when  the  guid  man  canna 
keep  awa'  frae  the  glass ;  an'  when  the  scent  of  the 
whusky  comes  to  me  it's  just  as  though  I  hae'd  the 
throat  o'  a  Loch  Tay  salmon ;  it  just  gaes  doon  an' 
doon,  an'  there's  nae  filling  o'  me." 

"Ay,  but  ye're  a  guid  man  when  ye're  sober, 
Davie." 

"Maybe  I'll  be  that,  Jennie,  if  I'm  nae  disturbed." 

"An'  ye'll  bide  wi'  me,  Davie,  an'  work  for  me?" 

"I  see  nae  reason  why  I  shouldna  bide  wi'  ye, 
Jennie;  but  dinna  ye  clack  aboot  work  to  me,  for 
I  just  canna  bear  the  thoct  o't." 

"Anyhow,  ye'll  do  your  best,  Davie?  As  the 
minister  says,  nae  man  can  do  mair  than  that." 

"An'  it's  a  puir  best  that  mine'll  be,  Jennie,  and 


104  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

I'm  nae  sae  sure  ye'll  hae  ower  muckle  even  o'  that. 
We're  a'  weak,  sinfu'  creatures,  Jennie,  an'  ye'd 
hae  some  deefficulty  to  fin'  a  man  weaker  or  mair 
sinfu'  than  mysel'." 

"Weel,  weel,  ye  hae  a  truthfu'  tongue,  Davie. 
Mony  a  lad  will  mak  fine  promises  to  a  puir  lassie, 
only  to  break  'em  an'  her  heart  wi'  'em.  Ye  speak 
me  fair,  Davie,  and  I'm  thinkin'  I'll  just  tak  ye, 
an'  see  what  comes  o't." 

Concerning  what  did  come  of  it  the  story  is  silent, 
but  one  feels  that  under  no  circumstances  had  the 
lady  any  right  to  complain  of  her  bargain. 


The  Wife  Who  Sat  Up. 

GEORGE  GROSSMITH. 

IN  a  chair  sat  a  weary  wife  dozing, 
Awaiting  her  husband's  return; 

The  clock  in  the  hall  struck  midnight, 
She  sighed  with  the  deepest  concern — 

"The  club  has  the  usual  attraction, 
And  I  am  too  injured  to  speak; 

But  I  will,  yes,  I  will  sit  up  for  him 
If  I  have  to  sit  up  for  a  week." 

The  fire  on  the  hearth  had  burnt  lower; 

The  room  became  suddenly  chilled; 
Her  heart,  which  was  beating  and  beating, 

With  stern  indignation  was  filled. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

To  wait  for  her  husband's  returning, 
And  give  him  a  piece  of  her  mind, 

Was  the  object  for  which  she  was  yearning, 
Yearning  and  yawning  combined. 

The  clock  in  the  hall  struck  one  first, 

And  then  it  struck  tivo — and  then  three — 

And  when  it  struck  four,  she  rose  proudly, 
And  said,  "It's  an  insult  to  me." 

It  was,  for  the  husband  had  quietly 
Sneaked  in  fifteen  minutes  before — 

He  made  not  a  sound  with  the  latch-key, 
Or  in  closing  his  dressing-room  door. 

She  found  him  in  peaceful  slumber, 

Not  even  the  ghost  of  a  snore; 
She  smothered  her  deep  indignation, 

But  never  sat  up  any  more. 

A  Poem  of  Every-Day  Life. 

ALBERT  RIDDLE. 

HE  tore  him  from  the  merry  throng 

Within  the  billiard  hall ; 
He  was  gotten  up  regardlessly 

To  pay  his  party  call. 
His  thoughts  were  dire  and  dark  within, 

Discourteous  to  fate: 
"Ah,  me !    these  social  debts  incurred 

Are  hard  to  liquidate." 


I06  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

His  boots  were  slender,  long  and  trim; 

His  collar  tall  and  swell ; 
His  hats  were  made  by  Dunlap, 

And  his  coats  were  cut  by  Bell ; 
A  symphony  in  black  and  white, 

"Of  our  set"  the  pride, 
Yet  he  lingered  on  his  way — 

He  would  that  he  had  died. 

His  feet  caressed  the  lonely  way, 

The  pave  gave  forth  no  sound ; 
They  seemed  in  pitying  silence  clothed, 

West-End-ward  he  was  bound. 
He  approached  the  mansion  stealthily, 

The  step  looked  cold  and  chill; 
He  glanced  into  the  vestibule, 

But  all  was  calm  and  still. 

He  fingered  nervously  the  bell, 

His  card-case  in  his  hand; 
He  saw  the  mirror  in  the  hall — 

Solemn,  stately,  grand. 
Suddenly  his  spirits  rose; 

The  drawing-room  looked  dim; 
The  menial  filled  his  soul  with  joy 

With  "No,  there's  no  one  in." 

With  fiendish  glee  he  stole  away; 

His  heart  was  gay  and  light, 
Happy  that  he  went  and  paid 

His  party  call  that  night. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  IQJ 

His  steps  turned  to  the  billiard  hall, 

Blissfully  he  trod; 
He  entered:    "What,  returned  so  soon?" 

Replied:    "She's  out,  thank  God!" 

Sixteen  cues  were  put  to  rest 

Within  their  upright  beds, 
And  sixteen  different  tiles  were  placed 

On  sixteen  level  heads; 
Sixteen  men  upon  the  street 

In  solid  phalanx  all, 
And  sixteen  men  on  duty  bent 

To  pay  their  party  call. 

When  the  fairest  of  her  sex  came  home 

At  early  dawn,  I  ween, 
She  slowly  looked  the  cards  all  out — 

They  numbered  seventeen. 
With  calm  relief  she  raised  her  eyes, 

Filled  with  grateful  light, 
"Oh,  merciful  Fate,  look  down  and  see 

What  I've  escaped  this  night !" 

The  Hard-Shell  Preacher. 

EDWARD  EGGLESTON. 

This  extract  is  from  "The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster."  Mr. 
Eggleston  vouches  for  this  sermon  as  one  which  he  heard. 

"You  see,  my  respective  hearers,"  he  began — 
but  alas !  I  can  never  picture  to  you  the  rich,  red 
nose,  the  seesawing  gestures,  the  nasal  resonance, 


jog  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

the  sniffle,  the  melancholy  minor  key,  and  all  that. 
"My  respective  hearers-ah,  you  see-ah  as  how-ah 
as  my  tex'-ah  says  that  the  ox-ah  knoweth  his 
owner-ah,  and-ah  the  ass-ah  his  master's  crib-ah. 
A-h-h!  Now,  my  respective  hearers-ah,  they're  a 
mighty  sight  of  resemblance-ah  atwext  men-ah  and 
oxen-ah,  bekase-ah,  you  see,  men-ah  is  mighty  like 
oxen-ah,  jest  as  thar  is  atwext  defferent  men-ah; 
fer  the  ox  knoweth-ah  his  owner-ah,  and  the  ass-ah, 
his  master's  crib-ah.  Now,  my  respective  hearers- 
ah"  (the  preacher's  voice  here  grew  mellow,  and 
the  succeeding  sentences  were  in  the  most  pathetic 
and  lugubrious  voice),  "you  all  know-ah  that  your 
humble  speaker-ah  has  got-ah  jest  the  best  yoke  of 
steers-ah  in  this  township-ah.  They  a'n't  no  sech 
steers  as  them  air  two  of  mine-ah  in  this  whole 
kedentry-ah.  Them  crack  oxen  over  at  Clifty-ah 
ha'n't  a  patchin'  to  mine-ah.  Fer  the  ox  knoweth 
his  owner-ah,  and  the  ass-ah  his  master's  crib-ah. 

"Now,  my  respective  hearers-ah,  they's  a  right 
smart  sight  of  difference-ah  atwext  them  air  two 
oxen-ah,  jest  like  they  is  atwext  different  men-ah. 
Fer-ah"  (here  the  speaker  grew  earnest,  and  sawed 
the  air,  from  this  to  the  close,  in  a  most  frightful 
way),  "fer-ah,  you  see-ah,  when  I  go  out-ah  in  the 
mornin'-ah  to  yoke-ah  up-ah  them  air  steers-ah, 
and  I  says-ah,  'Wo,  Berry-ah!  Wo,  Berry-ah! 
Wo,  BERRY-AH  !'  why,  Berry-ah  jest  stands  stock 
still-ah  and  don't  hardly  breathe-ah,  while  I  put  on 
the  yoke-ah,  and  put  in  the  bow-ah,  and  put  in  the 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  JQQ 

key-ah,  fer,  my  brethering-ah  and  sistering-ah,  the 
ox  knoweth  his  owner-ah,  and  the  ass-ah  his  mas- 
ter's crib-ah.  Hal-le-lu-jer-ah! 

"But-ah,  my  hearers-ah,  but-ah  when  I  stand  at 
t'other  eend  of  the  yoke-ah,  and  say,  'Come, 
Buck-ah!  Cone,  Buck-ah!  COME,  BUCK-AH  ! 
COME,  BUCK-AH!'  why,  what  do  you  think-ah? 
Buck-ah,  that  onery  ole  Buck-ah,  'stid  of  comin' 
right  along-ah  and  puttin'  his  neck  under-ah,  acts 
jest  like  some  men-ah  what  is  fools-ah.  Buck-ah 
jest  kinder  sorter  stands  off-ah,  and  kinder  sorter 
puts  his  head  down-ah  this  ere  way-ah,  and  kinder 
looks  mad-ah,  and  says,  'Boo-00-oo-OO-ah!' " 


The  Village  Choir. 

ANONYMOUS. 

HALF  a  bar,  half  a  bar, 
Half  a  bar  onward ! 
Into  an  awful  ditch 
Choir  and  precentor  hitch, 
Into  a  mess  of  pitch, 

They  led  the  Old  Hundred. 
Trebles  to  right  of  them, 
Tenors  to  left  of  them, 
Basses  in  front  of  them, 

Bellowed  and  thundered. 
Oh,  that  precentor's  look, 
When  the  sopranos  took 


IIO  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Their  own  time  and  hook 
From  the  Old  Hundred! 

Screeched  all  the  trebles  here, 
Boggled  the  tenors  there, 
Raising  the  parson's  hair, 

While  his  mind  wandered; 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why 
This  psalm  was  pitched  too  high : 
Theirs  but  to  gasp  and  cry 

Out  the  Old  Hundred. 
Trebles  to  right  of  them, 
Tenors  to  left  of  them, 
Basses  in  front  of  them, 

Bellowed  and  thundered. 
Stormed  they  with  shout  and  yell, 
Not  wise  they  sang  nor  well, 
Drowning  the  sexton's  bell, 

While  all  the  church  wondered. 

Dire  the  precentor's  glare, 
Flashed  his  pitchfork  in  air, 
Sounding  fresh  keys  to  bear 

Out  the  Old  Hundred. 
Swiftly  he  turned  his  back, 
Reached  his  hat  from  the  rack, 
Then  from  the  screaming  pack, 

Himself  he  surrendered. 
Tenors  to  right  of  him, 
Tenors  to  left  of  him, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  m 

Discords  behind  him, 

Bellowed  and  thundered. 
Oh,  the  wild  howls  they  wrought ! 
Right  to  the  end  they  fought ! 
Some  tune  they  sang,  but  not, 

Not  the  Old  Hundred. 

Ringing  the  Changes. 

BERTHA  MOORE. 

SCENE.    A  comfortable  sitting-room.     Table  centre,  two 

easy  chairs,  one  each  side  of  stage,  facing  audience. 

Window,  centre  back  doors  L  and  R. 
CHARACTERS. 

MRS.  BROWN  MELTON   (a  young  woman). 

MR.  BROWN  MELTON   (a  middle-aged  man). 

[Both  discovered  reading.  MR.  B.  M.  smoking, 
"Times"  in  hand.  MRS.  B.  M.,  with  copy  of 
lady's  paper,  looking  very  bored  and  uninter- 
ested, looks  up  constantly  at  her  husband  and  is 
about  to  speak,  then  checks  herself.  At  last  he 
turns  sheet  of  paper,  and  she  speaks: 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (querulously).    Aren't  you  ever  going 
to  speak  again  ? 

Mr.  B.  M.  (unheedingly).    Eh!   what!  (goes  on 
reading). 

Mrs.  B.  M.    It's  perfectly  sickening. 

[Mr.  B.  M.  takes  no  notice,  still  reads. 

Mrs.  B.  M.     Algernon!     (No  answer.)     Alger- 
non!    (No  answer.)     Algernon!  !  !  (very  loud). 

Mr.  B.  M.  (starts,  takes  off  his  glasses).     Eh! 
what !  sorry,  my  dear ;  did  you  speak  ? 


112  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Mrs.  B.M.  (scornfully).  Speak!  I've  been  yell- 
ing, positively  yelling.  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  sur- 
prised if  the  police  came  in  to  see  what  was  the 
matter. 

Mr.  B.  M.  (smiling).  Gently,  my  dear,  gently; 
I  may  be  nearly  blind  (fixes  on  glasses  again),  but 
I'm  not  deaf.  I  was  very  interested  in  something  I 
found  in  the  paper. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  Interested  !  Paper  !  Yes,  that's  all 
very  well  for  you,  but  what  about  me?  What  have 
7  to  be  interested  in,  alone  all  day,  no  one  to  speak 
a  word  to,  and  when  you  come  home  you  read  your 
paper  and  never  open  your  mouth  except  to  yaw,n  ? 

Mr.  B.  M.  You  see,  my  dear,  I  have  so  much 
talking  to  do  all  day,  it's  quite  a  rest  not  to  speak 
when  I  get  home. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  Then  it's  a  pity  you  didn't  marry  a 
deaf-and-dumb  woman. 

Mr.  B.  M.  (still  smiling).  I  preferred  a  pretty 
woman  with  a  soft  voice. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (jumping  up).  It's  not  a  bit  of  good 
buttering  me  up  and  calling  me  pretty.  I  might  be 
ugly  as  sin,  for  you  never  look  at  anything  but 
your  b-b-beastly  paper. 

Mr.  B.  M.  I'm  looking  at  you  now,  and  I  feel 
afraid  if  you  use  your  handkerchief  so  vigorously 
you  will  soon  have  a  red  nose,  which  would  be  a 
pity,  for 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (stamping).  I  won't  stand  it,  I  give 
you  fair  warning,  I  won't.  When  I  married  you 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  113 

I  thought  you  would  be  so  interesting,  would  tell 
me  all  your  cases,  I  should  get  behind  the  scenes  of 
all  the  "causes  celebres,"  and  be  au  fait  with  all  the 
facts  of  the  most  recent  divorce  cases,  instead  ot 
which  you  never  open  your  mouth 

Mr.  B.  M.     Except  to  yawn. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  about  any  of  them.  I  might  as 

well  have  married  a-a-an  undertaker. 

Mr.  B.  M.  Well,  my  dear,  we'll  discuss  this  to- 
morrow. I'm  very  tired  to-night  and  I  want  to 
read  about (Takes  up  paper  again.} 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (strides  up  to  him  and  tears  the  paper 
from  his  hands,  crumples  it  up  and  throws  it  in 
corner).  There! 

Mr.  B.  M.  (quietly).  Well,  I  liked  it  better  here, 
myself,  but  as  you  wish. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  Algernon  !  my  life  is  unbearable,  one 
deadly  monotony  from  morning  to  night,  from 
Monday  to  Sunday,  from  January  to  December.  I 
cannot  and  will  not  stand  it. 

Mr.  B.  M.  (offering  a  chair).  Sit  down,  my  dear, 
what's  to  prevent  you  ?  No  extra  charge  for  chairs. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (passionately  pushing  chair  over). 
I'm  serious,  and  you  always  joke  when  I  want  to 
talk  seriously.  I — I — I  don't  know  why  you  mar- 
ried me. 

Mr.  B.  M.  For  various  reasons,  one  being  that  I 
admired  and  loved  you. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  Admired  and  loved  me  !  Pooh !  If 
you  have  a  lovely  bit  of  china,  do  you  lock  it  away 


114  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

out  of  sight?  No,  you  like  to  look  at  it  and  ask 
your  friends  to  admire  it  too. 

Mr.  B.  M.    True. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  Then  if  you  admire  me,  why  don't 
you  want  your  friends  to  do  the  same?  We  sit 
opposite  each  other  till  I  believe  I  could  draw  your 
nose  blindfold. 

Mr.  B.  M.  (feeling  nose).  And  even  then  pos- 
sibly improve  its  somewhat  wandering  beauty. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (stamping).  Algernon,  will  you  be 
serious?  I  tell  you  if  something  doesn't  happen 
soon  I  shall  go  mad. 

Mr.  B.  M.     What  sort  of  thing? 

Mrs  B.  M.  Oh,  anything.  Other  people  are 
always  getting  something,  being  robbed  or  run 
over  by  cabs,  or 

Air.  B.  M.     I  should  hardly  envy  them  that. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  Or  have  people  fall  in  love  with  them 
or  something. 

Mr.  B.  M.  (sharply).  Do  you  think  that  would 
be  amusing? 

Mrs.  B.  M.  Yes,  infinitely  more  amusing 
than 

Mr.  B.  M.  The  humdrum  affection  of  an  old 
husband.  Well,  my  dear,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  promise 
to  send  any  one  to  fall  in  love  with  you,  but  since 
you  find  me  so  dull  I'll  go  out  to  my  club  and 
finish  my  paper  there.  [Goes  out  R. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (sinks  into  chair  and  cries).  It's  too 
bad,  it's  not  fair!  I  am  pretty  and  pleasant  when 


fOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  115 

I  like,  and  why  should  I  be  shut  away  here,  always 
with  Algernon?  Of  course  he's  very  fond  of  me 
and  I  of  him,  only  it's  like  eating  an  egg  without 
salt  to  be  Darby  and  Joan  always.  And  the  worst 
of  it  is  I  can't  make  him  angry  whatever  I  say  or 
do,  but  yet  he  won't  let  me  go  out  or  about  and 
have  people  here,  like  everyone  else  does.  I  believe 
it's  three  weeks  since  I  spoke  to  another  man. 
(Takes  up  paper  and  reads.)  It  sickens  me  to  see 
in  the  society  papers  all  the  good  times  people  have 

and  I  buried  alive  here  and  wasting  my Come 

in!  (Knock  at  door,  L.) 

Mr.  B.  M.  (enters  disguised  as  a  Frenchman). 
Pardon!  is  Mons.  Brown  Melton  within  himself? 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (rising).  My  husband  has  just  gone 
to  the  club ;  can  you  leave  any  message  ? 

Mr.  B.  M.  (walking  in,  hat  in  hand).  Pardon, 
Madame,  I  speak  not  well  of  your  English,  vat  is 
dat  mess — mess 

Mrs.  B.  M.    Message!    Message.     (Loudly.) 

Mr.  B.  M.  Message!  Mess-age.  Oh!  peut-Ctre, 
Madame,  means  communication? 

Mrs.  B.  M.    Yes,  that  I  can  tell  my  husband. 

Mr.  B.  M.  It  is  difficile.  Madame  speaks 
French  ? 

Mrs.  B.  M.     Unfortunately,  very  little. 

Mr.  B.  M.  Unfortunately,  very  little,  verra 
leetle.  (Loudly.) 

Mr.  B.  M.  Quel  malheur,  but  Madame  would 
allow  that  I  wait  I  seat  myself? 


H6  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Mrs.  B.  M.     Oh,  certainly;    I  don't  expect  my 
husband  will  be  long.     Will  you  take  that  chair? 

Mr.  B.  M.    A  thousand  t'anks,  but  Madame  per- 
mits first  that  I  sit  on  her.     (Offering  chair.) 

Mrs.  B.  M.    On  me? 

Mr.  B.  M.    A  t'ousand  pardons,  I  mean  she  sits 
on  me. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (horrified).    On  you? 

Mr.  B.  M.    A  t'ousand  pardons,  I  mean  that  she 
sits  before  me. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (relieved,  sinks  into  easy  chair).  Oh, 
certainly. 

Mr.  B.  M.     The  husband  of  Madame  is  verra 
busy.     Yes  ? 

Mrs.  B.  M.     Oh,  very  busy,  but  then  he's  so 
clever,  you  see. 

Mr.  B.  M.    But  not  so  clever  as  his  wife.     No? 
(Bowing.) 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (smiling).    Much  cleverer.    I  am  not 
a  bit  clever. 

Mr.  B.  M.    But  so  beautiful ! 

Mrs.  B.  M.     Sir! 

Mr.  B.  M.    A  t'ousand  pardons.    I  say  something 
wrong,  I  should  say  so  ugly. 

Mrs.  B.  M.    Sir!  ! 

.    Mr.  B.  M.     A  t'ousand  pardons.     I  say  wrong 
again,  I  should  say  so  improper. 

Mrs.B.M.    Really,  sir  !  !  ! 

Mr.  B.  M.  (rises  and  bozvs  deeply).     Madame, 
it  cut  me  to  the  heart  that  I  know  not  your  Ian- 


FOR  READING  AND   SPEAKING. 


117 


guage.  I  want  to  say  that  Madame  is  belle,  jolie 
like  a  bug. 

Mrs.  B.  M.     A  bug!  ! 

Mr.  B.  M.  Him  that  flies  with  the  wings,  like 
this.  (Pretends  to  fly.) 

Mrs.  B.  M.     (laughing).    Oh,  a  butterfly. 

Mr.  B.  M.  (excitedly).  Oui,  oui ;  oh,  but 
Madame  is  so  fast! 

Mrs.  B.  M.     Fast ! 

Mr.  B.  M.    To  understood. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  Oh,  quick  to  understand,  you  mean. 
Won't  you  sit  down  again? 

Mr.  B.  M.  A  thousand  t'anks.  (They  both  sit.) 
I  love  dis  chair.  (Beaming.) 

Mrs.  B.  M.  You  should  say  like  this  chair;  we 
only  say  we  love  people. 

Mr.  B.  M.  But  how  very  kind  to  help  me.  I 
like  dis  chair. 

Mrs.  B.  M.    That's  beautifully  said. 

Mr.  B.  M.  (thoughtfully).  I  like  dis  chair,  I 
like  dis  table,  I  like  dis  house,  I  love  Mrs. 
Brown  Melton. 

Mrs.  B.  M.     Oh,  but  you  mustn't  say  that! 

Mr.  B.  M.  A  t'ousand  pardons,  but  you  say — I 
love  about  people.  Yes? 

Mrs.  B.  M.  Yes,  if  you  know  them  very  well  or 
are  related  or — or — really  love  them. 

Mr.  B.  M.  (leaning  over  to  her  chair).  But  if 
I  do  really  love  you,  what  must  I  say  ? 

Mrs.B.M.  (agitatedly).  Oh!  Nothing!  Noth- 
ing! 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Mr.  B.  M.  (earnestly,  coming  nearer  and  speak- 
ing with  deep  feeling).  Nothing !  nothing ! 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (laughing  hysterically).  No,  no.  I 
don't  mean  that.  Oh  dear,  can't  you  understand? 
I  am  married,  and  even  if  you  loved  me,  you  mustn't 
say  so  to  me,  you  must  only  say  it  to  yourself. 

Mr.  B.  M.  A  t'ousand  pardons.  (He  walks  to 
the  other  side  of  the  room  and  with  exaggerated 
gesture  says  three  times  loudly  to  himself.)  I  love 
you — her.  (Pointing  behind  him  to  Mrs.  B.  M.) 
I  love  you — her — I  love  you — her.  (Then  comes 
back  with  a  satisfied  smile  and  sits  down  again.) 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (watches  him  aghast  and  then  goes 
to  window).  Oh!  when  will  Algy  be  back? 

Mr.  B.  M.     Madame  look  for  something? 

Mrs.  B.  M.  No,  no;  only  I  thought,  perhaps, 
you  would  call  to-morrow.  My  husband  may  be 
late. 

Mr.  B.  M.  T'ank  you,  I  will  wait.  Madame  is 
too  kind  to  make  time  very  slow. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (haughtily).  I  am  sorry,  sir,  but  I 

Mr.  B.  M.  Pardon,  Madame,  another  mistake,  I 
should  say,  quick. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  Oh!  yes — ah! — will  you  have  a 
whisky  and  soda? 

Mr.  B.  M.  (jumping  up).  With  much  com- 
plaisance. (She  fills  glass  and  hands  it  to  him; 
he  raises  it  and  says  in  a  loud  voice,  bowing  low.) 
I  drink  to  your  good  illness. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  My  good  health,  you  mean;  thank 
you. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING, 


119 


Mr.  B.  M.  I  am  desolated  that  I  make  so  many 
mistakes.  It  is  not  possible  that  Madame  speak  to 
me  in  French? 

Mrs.  B.  M.  I  am  afraid  you  wouldn't  under- 
stand my  French,  and  it  wouldn't  interest  you  to 
know,  "a  la  Ahn,"  that  "I  have  a  penknife,"  or  that 
"My  gardener's  daughter  is  sick,"  and  that  is  as 
far  as  my  French  will  take  me. 

Mr.  B.  M.  But  Madame  understands  if  /  talk 
French  ? 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (doubtfully").    A  little,  yes. 

Mr.  B.  M.  (rubbing  his  hands).  Dat  is  good, 
vous  comprenez,  Madame,  je  desire  de  vous  em- 
brasser. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  You  want  to  what?  I  don't  think 
I  ever  learned  that  word. 

Mr.  B.  M.  Ah!  is  dat  possible?  But  it  is  so 
simple.  Shall  I  teach  you?  You  are  so  kind  to 
teach  me,  now  I  will  teach  you.  Madame,  say  it 
after  me — "Je  desire  de  vous  embrasser." 

Mrs.  B.  M.    Je  desire  de  vous  embrasser. 

Mr.  B.  M.  Oh,  Madame,  your  accent  is  beauti- 
ful— but  you  t'ink  your  'usband  not  mind? 

Mrs.  B.  M.  Oh,  no,  I'm  sure  he'll  think  it  very 
kind  of  you. 

Mr.  B.  M.  Den,  Madame,  your  desire  is  quite 
easy  to  do ;  vill  you  have  the  goodness  to  copy  me  ? 

Mrs.  B.  M.  Yes.  (They  stand  facing  each 
other.) 


120  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Mr.  B.  M.  You  put  your  mouse  jus'  so.  (He 
purses  his  lips.  Mrs.  B.  M.  copies  him  gravely.) 

Mr.  B.  M.  Now  you  come  close  to  me,  so.  I 
come  close  to  you  and  you  do  as  I  do.  (He  kisses 
her  cheek.) 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (starts  back).    How  dare  you? 

Mr.  B.  M.  (shrugs  his  shoulder).  But,  Madame, 
I  do  what  you  desire.  "Je  desire  de  vous  embras- 
ser,"  you  say  to  me,  "I  wish  to  kiss  you." 

Mrs.  B.  M.  It's — it's  scandalous.  How  dare 
you? 

Mr.  B.  M.  A  t'ousand  pardons.  I  am  alvas 
villing  to  oblige  a  lady.  If  I  vas  wrong,  forgive  me. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  I  insist  on  your  leaving  this  house. 
(She  goes  to  the  bell.) 

Mr.  B.  M.  (standing  in  front  of  it).  No — I  vait 
for  your  'usband. 

(Mrs.  B.  M.  moves  to  the  door.  He  steps  in 
front  of  her.) 

Mr.  B.  M.  No,  Madame  cannot  leave.  I  must 
explain  to  'er  'usband.  I  only  do  vat  she  ast,  or 
per'aps,  'e  take  me  to  the  'ouses  of  Parliament  and 
your  Prime  Minister  cut  off  my  head  slick,  just 
so.  (Making  sign  across  throat.) 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (viciously).  I  wish  your  head  had 
been  cut  off  before  you  came  here. 

Mr.  B.  M.  Ah !  dat  vould  be  funny.  I  should 
not  know  vere  to  put  my  'at.  I  should  look  like  dis. 
(He  takes  his  hat,  which  is  a  large  one,  and  jams  it 
doivn  right  over  his  head,  till  it  rests  on  his 


FOR  READING  AND   SPEAKING.  121 

shoulders,  then  removes  it.)  Madame  would  'ave 
been  frightened.  (In  taking  off  the  hat  his  wig 
comes  too  and  he  stands  revealed.) 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (bursting  out  laughing).  Algernon! 
You  horrid —  Oh,  how  you  frightened  me  ! 

Mr.  B.  M.  (smoothing  his  hair).  Sorry,  my  dear. 
(Taking  off  mustache  and  putting  on  glasses  and 
assuming  his  legal  appearance.)  But  I  thought  I 
would  give  you  a  little  change  from  the  monotony 
of  your  existence.  I'm  glad,  though,  you  were 
angry  when  I  kissed  you. 

Mrs.  B.  M.  It  was  too  bad  of  you.  But,  Algy, 
what  a  splendid  actor  you  are ! 

Mr.  B.  M.  So  I've  been  told ;  and  that  reminds 
me,  the  Philothespian  Club,  to  which  I  belonged 
before  I  was  married,  have  written  asking  if  you 
and  I  will  help  them  at  their  next  performance. 
What  do  you  say? 

Mrs.  B.  M.  I'd  love  it.  There  is  nothing  I  like 
better  than  acting. 

Mr.  B.  M.  Very  well,  my  dear,  then  we  will,  and 
I'll  try  to  be  a  bit  more  sociable,  but  I'll  take  jolly 
good  care  you  don't  act  with  a  Frenchman,  or,  who 
knows,  you  might  "desire  de  1'embrasser"  and — 

Mrs.  B.  M.  (stopping  his  mouth  with  her  hand). 
I  don't  want  to  "embrasser"  any  one  but  you. 

Mr.  B.  M.  Then  do  as  I  do.  (As  the  curtain 
comes  down  they  stand  face  to  face  with  pursed-up 
lips.) 


122  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


"Why  Don't  the  Men  Propose?" 

THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY. 

WHY  don't  the  men  propose,  mamma? 

Why  don't  the  men  propose? 
Each  seems  just  coming  to  the  point, 

And  then  away  he  goes ! 
It  is  no  fault  of  yours,  mamma, 

That  everybody  knows; 
You  fete  the  finest  men  in  town, 

Yet,  oh,  they  won't  propose! 

I'm  sure  I've  done  my  best,  mamma, 

To  make  a  proper  match ; 
For  coronets  and  eldest  sons 

I'm  ever  on  the  watch: 
I've  hope  when  some  distingue  beau 

A  glance  upon  me  throws  ; 
But  though  he'll  dance,  and  smile,  and  flirt, 

Alas,  he  won't  propose! 

I've  tried  to  win  by  languishing, 

And  dressing  like  a  blue ; 
I've  bought  big  books,  and  talk'd  of  them, 

As  if  I  read  them  through! 
With  hair  cropp'd  like  a  man,  I've  felt 

The  heads  of  all  the  beaux; 
But  Spurzheim  could  not  touch  their  hearts, 

And  oh,  they  won't  propose! 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

I  threw  aside  the  books,  and  thought 

That  ignorance  was  bliss; 
I  felt  convinced  that  men  preferred 

A  simple  sort  of  Miss; 
And  so  I  lisp'd  out  naught  beyond 

Plain  "yeses"  or  plain  "noes," 
And  wore  a  sweet  unmeaning  smile; 

Yet,  oh,  they  won't  propose ! 

Last  night,  at  Lady  Ramble's  rout, 

I  heard  Sir  Harry  Gale 
Exclaim,  "NcVw,  I  propose  again " 

I  started,  turning  pale; 
I  really  thought  my  time  was  come, 

I  blush'd  like  any  rose; 
But,  oh !  I  found  'twas  only  at 

Ecarte  he'd  propose ! 

And  what  is  to  be  done,  mamma? 

Oh,  what  is  to  be  done? 
I  really  have  no  time  to  lose, 

For  I  am  thirty-one. 
At  balls,  I  am  too  often  left 

Where  spinsters  sit  in  rows ; 
Why  won't  the  men  propose,  mamma? 

Why  won't  the  men  propose? 


123 


124  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

French  with  a  Master. 
THEODORE  TILTON. 

TEACH  you  French  ?    I  will,  my  dear ! 
Sit  and  con  your  lesson  here. 
What  did  Adam  say  to  Eve? 

Aimer,  aimer;   c'cst  a  rirrr. 

Don't  pronounce  the  last  word  long; 
Make  it  short  to  suit  the  song; 
Rhyme  it  to  your  flowing  sleeve, 
Aimer,  aimer;    e'est  a  rivre. 

Sleeve,  I  said,  but  what's  the  harm 
If  I  really  meant  your  arm? 
Mine  shall  twine  it  (by  your  leave), 
Aimer,  aimer;    e'est  a  rizre. 

Learning  French  is  full  of  slips; 

Do  as'  I  do  with  the  lips  ; 

Here's  the  right  way,  you  perceive, 

Aimer,  aimer;    c'est  a  vivre. 

French  is  always  spoken  best 
Breathing  deeply  from  the  chest; 
Darling,  does  your  bosom  heave  ? 
Aimer,  aimer;    c'cst  a  vivre. 

Now,  my  dainty  little  sprite, 
Have  I  taught  your  lesson  right? 
Then  what  pay  shall  I  receive? 
Aimer,  aimer;    c'est  a  vivre. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  125 

Will  you  think  me  overbold 
If  I  linger  to  be  told 
Whether  you  yourself  believe 
Aimer,  aimer;    c'est  a  vivre? 

Pretty  pupil,  when  you  say 
All  this  French  to  me  to-day, 
Do  you  mean  it,  or  deceive? 
Aimer,  aimer;    c'est  a  vivre. 

Tell  me,  may  I  understand, 
When  I  press  your  little  hand, 
That  our  hearts  together  cleave? 
Aimer,  aimer;    c'est  a  vivre. 

Have  you  in  your  tresses  room 
For  some  orange-buds  to  bloom? 
May  I  such  a  garland  weave  ? 
Aimer,  aimer;    c'est  a  vivre. 

Or  if  I  presume  too  much, 
Teaching  French  by  sense  of  touch, 
Grant  me  pardon  and  reprieve! 
Aimer,  aimer;    c'est  a  vivre. 

Sweetheart,  no !   you  cannot  go ! 
Let  me  sit  and  hold  you  so ; 
Adam  did  the  same  to  Eve, — 
Aimer,  aimer;    c'est  d,  vivre. 


126  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Speech  of  Spartacus. 

BILL  NYE. 

IT  had  been  a  day  of  triumph  in  Capua.  Lentulus, 
returning  with  victorious  eagles,  had  aroused  the 
populace  with  the  sports  of  the  amphitheatre,  to  an 
extent  hitherto  unknown  even  in  that  luxurious  city. 
A  large  number  of  people  from  the  rural  districts 
had  been  in  town  to  watch  the  conflict  in  the  arena, 
and  to  listen  with  awe  and  veneration  to  the  infirm 
and  decrepit  ring  jokes. 

No  sound  was  heard  save  the  low  sob  of  some 
retiring  wave,  as  it  told  its  story  to  the  smooth 
pebbles  of  the  beach,  or  the  unrelenting  bootjack 
struck  the  high  board  fence  in  the  back  yard,  just 
missing  the  Roman  tom-cat  in  its  mad  flight,  and 
then  all  was  still  as  the  breast  when  the  spirit  has 
departed.  Anon  the  Roman  snore  would  steal  in 
upon  the  deathly  silence,  and  then  die  away  like 
the  sough  of  a  summer  breeze.  In  the  green  room 
of  the  amphitheatre  a  little  band  of  gladiators  were 
assembled.  The  foam  o^  conflict  yet  lingered  on 
their  lips,  the  scowl  of  battle  yet  hung  upon  their 
brows,  and  the  large  knobs  on  their  classic  profiles 
indicated  that  it  had  been  a  busy  day  with  them. 

There  was  an  embarrassing  silence  of  about  five 
minutes,  when  Spartacus,  borrowing  a  chew  of 
tobacco  from  Trifoliatum  Aurelius,  stepped  forth 
and  thus  addressed  them : 

"Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen:   Ye  call 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


127 


me  chief,  and  ye  do  well  to  call  him  chief  who  for 
twelve  long  years  has  met  in  the  arena  every  shape 
of  man  or  beast  that  the  broad  empire  of  Rome 
could  furnish,  and  yet  has  never  lowered  his  arm. 
I  do  not  say  this  to  brag,  however,  but  simply  to 
show  that  I  am  the  star  thumper  of  the  entire  outfit. 

"If  there  be  one  among  you  who  can  say  that 
ever  in  public  fight  or  private  brawl  my  actions  did 
belie  my  words,  let  him  stand  forth  and  say  it,  and 
I  will  spread  him  around  over  the  arena  till  the 
Coroner  will  have  to  gather  him  up  with  a  blotting- 
paper.  If  there  be  three  in  all  your  company  dare 
face  me  on  the  bloody  sands,  let  them  come,  and 
I  will  construct  upon  their  physiognomy  such 
cupolas,  and  royal  cornices,  and  Corinthian  capitals, 
and  entablatures,  that  their  own  mothers  would  pass 
them  by  in  the  broad  light  of  high  noon,  unrecog- 
nized. 

"My  ancestors  came  from  old  Sparta,  the  county- 
seat  of  Marcus  Aurelius  County,  and  settled  among 
the  vine-clad  hills  and  cotton  groves  of  Syrsilla. 
My  early  life  ran  quiet  as  the  clear  brook  by  which 
I  sported.  Aside  from  the  gentle  patter  of  the 
maternal  slipper  on  my  overalls,  everything  moved 
along  with  me  like  the  silent  oleaginous  flow  of 
the  ordinary  goose-grease.  My  boyhood  was  one 
long,  happy  summer  day.  We  stole  the  Roman 
muskmelon,  and  put  split  sticks  on  the  tail  of  the 
Roman  dog,  and  life  was  one  continuous  hallelujah. 

"One  evening,  after  the  sheep  had  been  driven 


128  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

into  the  corral  and  we  were  all  seated  beneath  the 
persimmon  tree  that  shaded  our  humble  cottage,  my 
grandsire,  an  old  man,  was  telling  of  Marathon  and 
Leuctra  and  George  Francis  Train  and  Dr.  Mary 
Walker  and  other  great  men,  and  how  a  little  band 
of  Spartans,  under  Sitting  Bull,  had  withstood  the 
entire  regular  army.  I  did  not  then  know  what 
war  was,  but  my  cheek  burned,  I  knew  not  why, 
and  I  thought  what  a  glorious  thing  it  would  be  to 
leave  the  reservation  and  go  on  the  warpath.  But 
my  mother  kissed  my  throbbing  temples  and  bade 
me  go  soak  my  head  and  think  no  more  of  those  old 
tales  and  savage  wars.  That  very  night  the  Romans 
landed  on  our  coasts.  They  pillaged  the  whole 
country,  burned  the  agency  buildings,  demolished 
the  ranch,  rode  off  the  stock,  tore  down  the  smoke- 
house, and  rode  their  war-horses  over  the  cucumber 
vines. 

"To-day  I  killed  a  man  in  the  arena,  and  when 
I  broke  his  helmet  clasps  and  looked  upon  him, 
behold!  he  was  my  friend.  The  same  sweet  smile 
was  on  his  face  that  I  had  known  when  in  adven- 
turous boyhood  we  bathed  in  the  glassy  lake  by  our 
Spartan  home  and  he  had  tied  my  shirt  into  1,752 
dangerous  and  difficult  knots. 

"And  so  must  you,  fellow  gladiators,  and  so  must 
T,  die  like  dogs. 

"To-morrow  we  are  billed  to  appear  at  the  Col- 
iseum at  Rome,  and  reserved  seats  are  being  sold  at 
the  corner  of  Third  and  Corse  streets  for  our  moral 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


I29 


and  instructive  performance  while  I  am  speaking 
to  you. 

"Ye  stand  here  like  giants  as  ye  are,  but  to- 
morrow some  Roman  Adonis  with  a  sealskin  cap 
will  pat  your  red  brawn  and  bet  his  sesterces  upon 
your  blood. 

"O  Rome !  Rome !  Thou  hast  been  indeed  a 
tender  nurse  to  me.  Thou  hast  given  to  that  gentle, 
timid  shepherd  lad  who  never  knew  a  harsher  tone 
than  a  flute  note,  muscles  of  iron,  and  a  heart  like 
the  adamantine  lemon  pie  of  the  railroad  lunch- 
room. Thou  hast  taught  him  to  drive  his  sword 
through  plated  mail  and  links  of  rugged  brass,  and 
warm  it  in  the  palpitating  gizzard  of  his  foe,  and 
to  gaze  into  the  glaring  eyeballs  of  the  fierce  Numid- 
ian  lion  even  as  the  smooth-cheeked  Roman  Sena- 
tor looks  into  the  laughing  eyes  of  the  girls  in  the 
treasury  department. 

"And  he  shall  pay  thee  back  till  thy  rushing  Tiber 
is  red  as  frothing  wine ;  and  in  its  deepest  ooze  thy 
life-blood  lies  curdled.  You  doubtless  hear  the 
gentle  murmur  of  my  bazoo. 

"Hark!  Hear  ye  yon  lion  roaring  in  his  den? 
'Tis  three  days  since  he  tasted  flesh,  but  to-morrow 
he  will  have  gladiator  on  toast,  and  don't  you  forget 
it;  and  he  will  fling  your  vertebrae  about  his  cage 
like  the  star  pitcher  of  a  champion  nine. 

"If  ye  are  brutes,  then  stand  here  like  fat  oxen 
waiting  for  the  butcher's  knife.  If  ye  are  men, 
arise  and  follow  me.  Strike  down  the  warden  and 


130  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

the  turnkey,  overpower  the  police,  and  cut  for  the 
tall  timber.  We  will  break  through  the  city  gate, 
capture  the  war-horse  of  the  drunken  Roman,  flee 
away  to  the  lava  beds,  and  there  do  bloody  work, 
as  did  our  sires  at  old  Thermopylae,  scalp  the  west- 
ern-bound emigrant,  and  make  the  hen-roosts 
around  Capua  look  sick. 

"O  comrades  !   warriors !  gladiators !  ! 

"If  we  be  men,  let  us  die  like  men,  beneath  the 
blue  sky,  and  by  the  still  waters,  and  be  buried  ac- 
cording to  Gunter,  instead  of  having  our  shin  bones 
polished  off  by  Numidian  lions,  amid  the  groans 
and  hisses  of  a  snide  Roman  populace." 


Fame  and  Fate. 

EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE. 

From  "Rimes  to  be  Read."    Reprinted  by  permission  of 
the  author  and  of  the  publishers,  Dodge  Publishing  Co. 

"WORK  for  the  world,  but  art  for  me ! 

I  shall  win  my  way  with  the  brush/'  said  she. 

She  studied  art;   she  studied  it  hard; 

She  painted  canvases,  yard  on  yard 

(For  "Art  is  long,"  I'm  sure  you've  heard), 

Two  strokes,  or  three, 

For  a  blasted  tree, 

And  a  wiggle  or  two  for  a  flying  bird. 

But  "art"  is  sometimes  purest  gold, 

And  sometimes  merest  gilding— 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  131 

So  she  "wins  her  way  with  the  brush,"  I'm  told, 
By  scrubbing  a  New  York  building. 

"The  world  may  dig  in  the  dark,"  said  he, 

"But  the  beam  of  the  footlights  beckons  me." 

So  he  cried  in  grief  and  he  cried  in  joy, 

He  screamed  the  scream 

Of  Aram's  Dream, 

And  he  groaned  the  groan  of  the  Polish  boy. 

He  likewise  remarked,  "On  the  murderer's  hands 

Is  the  blood  of  his  victim !  there  he  stands !" 

And,  "Listen,  proud  maid!    You  shall  be  my  wife 

Even  though  it  shall  cost  your  husband's  life." 

But  "Art  is  long" — very  long — so,  too, 

Are  the  miles  of  ties  on  the  C.  B.  Q., 

So  he's  "on  the  stage" — in  Idaho, 

From  Seven  Devils  to  Silver  Bow. 

"Love  for  the  common,  but  mine  is  for  fame," 

She  cried,  "and  the  world  shall  know  my  name." 

Corrupting  English,  she  called  it  "verse," 

While  "poetry"  graded  somewhat,  worse. 

"Now  flees  my  love 

As  doth  the  dove 

Which  moults  to   feathery   clouds  above. 

Its  cryptic  cry  apace  doth  haste 

And  wounds  the  wind  which  sweeps  the  waste." 

Ah,  "Art  is  long"  (in  sad  endurance), 

And  Fame  coquettes  with  bald  Assurance. 

And  now,  wherever  (he  English  tongue 


132  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Is  put  into  print  her  praise  is  sung, 
For  she  was  cured  of  manifold  ills 
By  Buncombe  Bitters  and  Pigweed  Pills. 

"Gold  cozens  the  soul  of  men,  but  mine," 

He  said,  "is  filled  with  the  art  divine. 

Music  may  lead  me  whither  she  may ; 

I  toil  at  the  ivories  day  by  day 

Till  the  world  shall  gather  when  I  play." 

He  practised  in  every  conceivable  key — 

Ruplety,  tumplety,  tunk  tank,  tee; 

Ripplety,  skipplety,  lol-la-lee! 

Till  his  brow  with  an  honest  dew  was  wet 

And  neighboring  flats  were  marked  "To  Let.' 

Yes,  "Art  is  long,"  but  the  wise  retort 

That  the  artist  himself  is  sometimes  short, 

So  the  world  does  gather  to  watch  him  play 

As  he  fingers  the  ivories  day  by  day 

In  a  billiard  hall  in  Sante  Fe. 


Annabel  Lee. 

STANLEY  HUNTLEY. 

TWAS  more  than  a  million  years  ago, 

Or  so  it  seems  to  me, 
That  I  used  to  prance  around  and  beau 

The  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 
There  were  other  girls  in  the  neighborhood^ 

But  none  was  a  patch  to  she. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  133 

And  this  was  the  reason  that  long  ago 

My  love  fell  out  of  a  tree, 
And  busted  herself  on  a  cruel  rock — 

A  solemn  sight  to  see, 
For  it  spoiled  the  hat  and  gown  and  looks 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

We  loved  with  a  love  that  was  lovely  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee, 
And  we  went  one  day  to  gather  the  nuts 

That  men  call  hickoree. 
And  I  stayed  below  in  the  rosy  glow, 

While  she  shinned  up  the  tree, 
But  no  sooner  up  than  down  kerslup 

Came  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

And  the  pallid  moon  and  the  hectic  noon 

Bring  gleams  of  dreams  for  me, 
Of  the  desolate  and  desperate  fate 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 
And  I  often  think  as  I  sink  on  the  brink 

Of  slumber's  sea,  of  the  warm  pink  link 
That  bound  my  soul  to  Annabel  Lee ; 

And  it  wasn't  just  best  for  her  interest 
To  climb  that  hickory  tree, 

For  had  she  stayed  below  with  me, 
We'd  had  no  hickory  nuts  maybe, 

But  I  should  have  had  my  Annabel  Lee. 


134  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

The  Window  Blind. 

HENRY  ARTHUR  JONES. 
From  "The  Case  of  Rebellious  Susan." 

SCENE:  The  sitting-room  of  SIR  RICHARD  KATO,  Q.C., 
at  St.  Mildred's  Hotel,  Wesibay,  a  comfortable  room 
in  a  good-class  seaside  hotel.  A  door  right.  A  large 
window,  left.  Discover  SIR  RICHARD  writing  at  table. 

Enter  WAITER  at  door. 

Waiter.    Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fergusson  Pybus  are  here 
and  would  like  to  see  you,  Sir  Richard. 

Sir  R.     Show  them  in.     And  let  me  know  when 
Sir  Joseph  Darby  and  Mr.  Harabin  return. 

[Exit  WAITER. 

[SiR  RICHARD,  left  alone  for  some  moments, 
walks  up  and  down  room  rery  perplexed, 
indicating  that  he  is  putting  together  the  links 
of  a  chain  of  evidence,  and  puzzling  them  out 
in  his  own  mind,  walks,  stops  suddenly, 
slightly  scratches  Jiis  forehead,  puts  one  fore- 
finger on  the  otJicr,  puts  head  on  one  side, 
walks  again,  puzzles.] 

Enter  WAITER  ;  announces  MR.  and  MRS.  PYBUS, 
Enter  ELAINE  and  PYBUS  slowly  and  a  little  sulkily, 
as  if  on  bad  terms  with  each  other.    Exit  WAITER. 
Sir  R.  (cordially).    Well?     (Shaking  hands  with 
each  of  them.)     Well?     (Looking  from  one  to  the 
other.)      What's  the  matter?     Nothing  serious,   I 
hope  ? 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  135 

Pybus.  We  told  you,  Sir  Richard,  that  we  should 
come  to  you  if  any  difficulty  arose. 

Sir  R.  Thank  you.  (To  him.)  Sit  down.  (To 
her.)  Sit  down. 

[They  sit  down  on  each  side  of  him. 

Sir  R.  (genially).  Now  tell  me  all  about  it. 
[During  the  following  scene  SIR  RICHARD  is 
quietly  seated  between  the  two.  He  does  not 
interfere  in  the  least,  but  merely  turns  his 
head  from  one  to  the  other  as  each  begins  to 
speak.} 

Elaine.  The  whole  thing  is  in  a  nutshell.  Is  the 
mistress  of  the  house  to  be  consulted  on  a  purely 
domestic  arrangement,  or  is  she  not?  Is  she  to  be 
treated  as  a  rational  creature,  or  is  she  not  ? 

Pybus.  My  darling,  I  have  always  wished  to 
treat  you  as  something  entirely  sweet  and  perfect 
and  gracious;  something  sainted  and  apart;  but 
when  you  insist  on  getting  on  a  chair  and  breaking 
the  looking-glass — you  do  make  it  a  little  difficult, 
my  darling,  for  me  to — to — (descriptive  gesture) — • 
to  cherish  my  ideal  of  you. 

Elaine.  It  was  your  pushing  that  broke  the  look- 
ing-glass. 

Pybus.  My  darling,  I  was  quite  gentle.  I  merely 
held  the  corner  of  the  dressing-table  in  a  firm  posi- 
tion while  you  struggled. 

Elaine.  Just  so.  You  merely  asserted  your 
superior  brute  force.  Brute  force!  Brute  force! 
When  will  Woman  hear  any  other  argument  from 
Man? 


136  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Pybus.  My  dear  Elaine,  I  did  argtic  with  you 
for  nearly  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  I  explained 
how  impossible  it  is  for  me  to — to  concentrate 
myself,  to  bring  all  my  manifold  powers  to  bcar 
upon  the  problems  of  this  age  while  you  are  shaking 
the  washing  stand,  and  letting  the  breakfast  get 
quite  cold  merely  for  the  sake  of  indulging  your 
own  whims. 

Elaine.  Whims  ?  I  have  no  whims.  I  have  only 
convictions. 

Pybus.  My  dear  Elaine,  what  is  it  but  a  whim 
when  you 

Elaine.     Really,  Fergusson,  it  is  impossible — 
(Rising  angrily.) 

Pybus  (also  rising  angrily).  Really,  my  darling, 
I  cannot 

Sir  R.  (interposing,  soothes  them  down).  Tsch ! 
Tsch !  Tsch !  Tsch !  Sit  down.  Sit  down,  both  of 
you.  (Motioning  them  into  their  chairs  again.)  Sit 
down.  There  is  to  me  in  all  matrimonial  disagree- 
ments a  want  of  harmony,  a  want  of  beauty,  so  to 
speak,  which  I  am  quite  sure,  Mr.  Pybus,  must  be  as 
distressing  to  you  as  it  is  to  me. 

Pybus.  That  is  what  I  am  always  explaining  to 
Elaine.  We  made  it  a  rule  when  we  were  married 
to  avoid  all  that  is  petty  and  mean  and  commonplace 
in  life. 

Sir  R.  (soothingly).  An  excellent  rule.  It  ought 
to  be  incorporated  in  the  marriage  service. 
(Throughout  the  scene  he  assumes  a  perfectly  calm 
and  judicial  bearing.)  Well  now.  You  were  mar- 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


137 


ried  on  the  second  of  February.  After  your  honey- 
moon, you  took  up  your  residence  at 

Pybus.    At  Clapham. 

Sir  R.  At  Clapham.  You  made  it  a  rule  to 
avoid  all  that  is  mean  and  petty  and  commonplace 
in  life,  and  you  took  up  your  residence  at  Clapham. 
I  forget  the  exact  address  ? 

Pybus.    'The  Nest,"  Gladstone  Road,  Clapham. 

Sir  R.    'The  Nest,"  Gladstone  Road,  Clapham. 

Pybus  (plaintively).  I  cannot  say  that  Clapham 
appeals  to  me. 

Elaine.  Clapham  is  intolerably  suburban.  The 
inhabitants  of  Clapham  are  entirely  conventional 
persons.  They  do  not  live  in  the  realm  of  ideas  at 
all.  And  Fergusson  will  not  join  me  in  rousing 

Pybus  (interrupting  her).  My  angel,  I  do  think 

it  is  of  more  importance  that  you  should (ends 

with  feeble  descriptive  gesture). 

Elaine.  And  I  think  that  it  is  of  more  importance 
that  you  should  assist  me  in  organizing  my  society. 

Pybus.    I  cannot  see,  my  dear 

Elaine  (stopping  him).  No,  Fergusson,  you  can- 
not see.  That  is  the  difficulty  with  men.  They 
cannot  see. 

Pybus.  Really,  my  darling (rising  again 

angrily). 

Elaine.    Really 

Sir  R.  (soothing  them  down).  Tsch!  Tsch! 
Tsch!  Tsch!  (Gets  them  seated  again.  To 
ELAINE.)  What  is  this  society  you  are  organizing? 

Elaine.    The  Clapham  Boadicean  Society  for  the 


138 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


Inculcation  of  the  New  Morality  among  the  Women 
of  Clap  ham. 

Sir  R.  What  is  the  New  Morality?  Has  it 
anything  to  do  with  the  Ten  Commandments? 

Elaine.  It  is  not  based  precisely  on  those  lines. 
(Beginning  oratorically.)  There  is  an  immense 
future  for  Woman 

Sir  R.  (hurriedly  stopping  her).  I'm  sure  there 
is  !  I'm  sure  there  is  !  But  we  must  not  discuss  the 
future  of  woman  just  now.  Well,  now,  you  agree 
upon  one  thing.  You  both  dislike  Clapham. 

Elaine.  It  is  your  unwarranted  retention  of  my 
fortune,  Sir  Richard,  that 

Sir  R.  (interrupts,  stopping  her).  Yes,  yes — we 
must  not  discuss  my  conduct  just  now. 

Elaine.  But  it  is  your  conduct  that  compels  us 
to  exist  in  a  jerry-built  villa,  in  a  wretched  suburb 
surrounded  by  suburban  persons  with  entirely 
suburban  ideas 

Sir  R.  My  dear  Elaine,  we  must  not  discuss 
Clapham  just  now.  (Taking  out  watch.)  I  want  to 
hear  the  history  of  this  unfortunate  disagreement 
between  you  and  Mr.  Pybus. 

Elaine.     But  it  all  arises  from  living  in  Clapham. 

Sir  R.  Oh!  I  thought  you  said  it  was  a  purely 
domestic  affair. 

Elaine.  So  it  is.  We  live  in  Gladstone  Road, 
Clapham. 

Sir  R.  But  how  does  that  produce  disagree- 
ments between  you  and  Mr.  Pybus? 

Pybus.    I  am  of  an  intensely  nervous  and  artistic 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

temperament,  and  I  cannot  shave  in  the  morning 
unless  the  blind  is  fully  drawn  up  so  that  I  can 
perceive,  with  the  utmost  nicety,  the  exact  position 
of  any  pimple — otherwise  I  cut  myself. 

Elaine.  But  it  is  very  inconvenient  that  the  blind 
should  be  drawn  up,  because  of  the  neighbors  in 
the  rooms  of  the  opposite  house. 

Pybus.  I  am  sure  Sir  Richard  will  agree  that  it 
is  highly  desirable  that  the  blind  should  be  drawn 
up. 

Sir  R.  (judicially).  It  is  highly  desirable,  Mr. 
Pybus,  that  you  should  not  cut  yourself  while 
shaving. 

Pybus  (to  ELAINE,  triumphantly).    There! 

Elaine.  But  if  the  blind  is  drawn  up,  the  people 
in  the  opposite  house 

Sir  R.  It  is  highly  desirable  that  the  good  folks 
who  live  in  Clapham  should  not  be  shocked. 

Elaine  (triumphantly  to  PYBUS).  There!  And 
every  morning  Fergusson  will  insist 

Pybus.  My  dear,  it  is  you  who  will  insist.  And 
really 

Sir  R.    Tsch!    Tsch!    Tsch!    Tsch! 

Pybus  (plaintively).  It  affected  my  health  so 
much  I  was  obliged  to  leave  Clapham.  And  I  can- 
not consent  to  return  to  "The  Nest"  unless 
Elaine (descriptive  gesture). 

Elaine.     Nor  can  I — unless 

Sir  R.  Tsch !  Tsch !  Tsch !  Tsch !  ( In  a  very 
calm  and  judicial  tone.)  Is  there  only  one  blind  to 
this  window,  or  is  there  also  a  small  muslin  blind? 


14^  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Ei  line.  There  is  a  small  muslin  blind.  (  PYBUS 
nods  acquiescence.) 

Sir  R.  What  is  the  distance  from  the  top  of  the 
muslin  blind  to  the  top  of  the  window  ? 

Elaine.     Four  feet. 

Pybus.    Three,  my  dear. 

Elaine.     Four. 

Pybus.    I'm  sure,  my  darling 

Elaine.     I  measured. 

Pybus.  I'm  sure — my  dear,  if  you  will  contra- 
dict  (pitcously). 

Sir  R.  Tsch !  Tsch !  Tsch !  Tsch !  We'll  have 
it  measured  again.  (To  PYBUS.)  The  looking- 
glass  is  immediately  under  the  window  ? 

Pybus  (pathetically).  The  looking-glass  is  un- 
fortunately broken. 

Sir  R.  Kindly  replace  it  at  my  expense.  (Pro- 
ceeds judicially.)  If  the  roller  blind  were  drawn 
down  each  morning  to  exactly  half  the  distance 
between  the  top  of  the  window  and  the  top  of  the 
muslin  blind,  it  would  allow  plenty  of  light  for  you 
to  shave  by,  Mr.  Pybus? 

Pybus.  Yes — yes,  I  think  so,  but  really  I 
cannot 

Sir  R.  Tsch!  Tsch!  Tsch!  Tsch!  (Turning 
to  ELAINE.)  And  it  would  also  protect  any  one 
inside  the  room  from  the  observation  of  the  neigh- 
bors opposite  ? 

Elaine.  Yes.  Unless  any  one  went  near  the 
window. 

Sir  R.    Well,  now,  it  seems  to  me  it  would  be 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


141 


convenient  to  every  one  concerned  if  during  the 
time  Mr.  Pybus  is  shaving  in  the  morning  the  roller 
blind  is  drawn  down  exactly  half  the  distance.  And 
during  that  time  it  would  be  convenient  if  you, 
Elaine,  did  not  go  within  two  yards  of  the  window. 

Enter  WAITER. 

Waiter.  Sir  Joseph  Darby  and  Mr.  Harabin  are 
outside,  Sir  Richard. 

Sir  R.  Show  them  in.  (Exit  WAITER.)  Now, 
won't  that  arrangement  enable  you  to  return  in  per- 
fect agreement  like  doves  to  the  nest  ? 

Pybus  (doubtful).     Yes,  perhaps,  but 

Elaine.     Well,  that  depends 

Sir  R.  Go  and  take  a  pleasant  little  stroll  in  the 
garden  (getting  them  off  at  window),  and  arrange 
in  future  for  the  blind  to  be  just  half-way  up — that 
is  to  say,  neither  up  nor  down. 

[Gets  them  off  at  window. 

The  Bachelor's  Soliloquy. 
ANONYMOUS. 

To  wed,  or  not  to  wed  ?    That  is  the  question : 

Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 

The  pangs  and  arrows  of  outrageous  love, 

Or  to  take  arms  against  the  powerful  flame 

And  by  oppressing  quench  it.  To  wed, — to  marry, — 

And  by  marriage  say  we  end 

The  heartache  and  the  thousand  painful  shocks 


142  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Love  makes  us  heir  to — 'tis  a  consummation 

Devoutly  to  be  wished  !    To  wed, — to  marry ,— 

Perchance  a  scold!    aye,  there's  the  rub! 

For  in  that  wedded  life  what  ills  may  come 

When  we  have  shuffled  off  our  single  state 

Must  give  us  serious  pause.    There's  the  respect 

That  makes  us  Bachelors  a  numerous  race. 

For  who  would  bear  the  dull  unsocial  hours 

Spent  by  unmarried  men,  cheered  by  no  smile, 

To  sit  like  hermit  at  a  lonely  board 

In  silence?    Who  would  bear  the  cruel  gibes 

With  which  the  Bachelor  is  daily  teased 

When  he  himself  might  end  such  heartfelt  griefs 

By  wedding  some  fair  maid  ?    Oh,  who  would  live 

Yawning  and  staring  sadly  in  the  fire 

Till  celibacy  becomes  a  weary  life, 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  wedlock 

(That  undiscovered  state  from  whose  strong  chains 

No  captive  can  get  free)  puzzles  the  will 

And  makes  us  rather  choose  those  ills  we  have 

Than  fly  to  others  which  a  wife  might  bring. 

Thus  caution  doth  make  Bachelors  of  us  all, 

And  thus  our  natural  taste  for  matrimony 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought. 

And  love  adventures  of  great  pith  and  moment 

With  this  regard  their  currents  turn  away 

And  lose  the  name  of  Wedlock. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  143 

Women. 

GEORGE  ELIOT.   . 

"WHAT!"  said  Bartle,  with  an  air  of  disgust. 
"Was  there  a  woman  concerned?  Then  I  give  you 
up,  Adam." 

"But  it's  a  woman  you'n  spoke  well  on,  Bartle," 
said  Mr.  Poyser.  "Come,  now,  you  canna  draw 
back;  you  said  once  as  women  wouldna  ha'  been  a 
bad  invention  if  they'd  been  all  like  Dinah." 

"I  meant  her  voice,  man — I  meant  her  voice,  that 
was  all,"  said  Bartle.  "I  can  bear  to  hear  her 
speak  without  wanting  to  put  wool  in  my  ears.  As 
for  other  things,  I  daresay  she's  like  the  rest  o'  the 
women — thinks  two  and  two'll  come  to  make  five, 
if  she  cries  and  bothers  enough  about  it." 

"Ay,  ay!"  said  Mrs.  Poyser;  "one  'ud  think,  an' 
hear  some  folk  talk,  as  the  men  war  'cute  enough 
to  count  the  corns  in  a  bag  o'  wheat  wi'  only  smell- 
ing at  it.  They  can  see  through  a  barn-door  they 
can.  Perhaps  that's  the  reason  they  can  see  so 
little  o'  this  side  on't." 

Martin  Poyser  shook  with  delighted  laughter, 
and  winked  at  Adam,  as  much  as  to  say  the  school- 
master was  in  for  it  now. 

"Ah!"  said  Bartle,  sneeringly,  "the  women  are 
quick  enough — they're  quick  enough.  They  know 
the  rights  of  a  story  before  they  hear  it,  and  can 
tell  a  man  what  his  thoughts  are  before  he  knows 
'em  himself." 

"Like  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser;   "for  the  men 


144  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

are  mostly  so  slow,  their  thoughts  overrun  'em,  an' 
they  can  only  catch  'em  by  the  tail.  I  can  count  a 
stocking-top  while  a  man's  getting's  tongue  ready ; 
an'  when  he  out  wi'  his  speech  at  last,  there's  little 
broth  to  be  made  on't.  It's  your  dead  chicks  take 
the  longest  hatchin'.  Howiver,  I'm  not  denyin'  the 
women  are  foolish:  God  Almighty  made  'em  to 
match  the  men." 

"Match!"  said  Bartle;  "ay,  as  vinegar  matches 
one's  teeth.  If  a  man  says  a  word,  his  wife'll  match 
it  with  a  contradiction ;  if  he's  a  mind  for  hot  meat, 
his  wife'll  match  it  with  cold  bacon;  if  he  laughs, 
she'll  match  him  with  whimpering.  She's  such  a 
match  as  the  horse-fly  is  to  th'  horse :  she's  got  the 
right  venom  to  sting  him  with — the  right  venom  to 
sting  him  with." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  "I  know  what  the  men 
like — a  poor  soft,  as  'ud  simper  at  'em  like  the  pic- 
tur'  o'  the  sun,  whether  they  did  right  or  wrong,  an' 
say  thank  you  for  a  kick,  an'  pretend  she  didna 
know  which  end  she  stood  uppermost,  till  her  hus- 
band told  her.  That's  what  a  man  wants  in  a  wife. 
mostly ;  he  wants  to  make  sure  o'  one  fool  as'll  tell 
him  he's  wise.  But  there's  some  men  can  do  wi'out 
that — they  think  so  much  o'  themselves  a'ready — 
an'  that's  how  it  is  there's  old  bachelors." 

"Come,  Craig,"  said  Mr.  Poyser  jocosely,  "you 
mun  get  married  pretty  quick,  else  you'll  be  set 
down  for  an  old  bachelor;  an'  you  see  what  the 
women  'nil  think  on  you." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Craig,  willing  to  conciliate  Mrs. 


FOR  READING  AXD  SPEAKING.  145 

Poyser  and  setting  a  high  value  on  his  own  compli- 
ments, "/  like  a  cleverish  woman — a  woman  o' 
sperrit — a  managing  woman." 

"You're  out  there,  Craig,"  said  Bartle,  dryly; 
"you're  out  there.  You  judge  o'  your  garden-stuff 
on  a  better  plan  than  that ;  you  pick  the  things  for 
what  they  can  excel  in — for  what  they  can  excel 
in.  You  don't  value  your  peas  for  their  roots,  or 
your  carrots  for  their  flowers.  Now  that's  the  way 
you  should  choose  women ;  their  cleverness'll  never 
come  to  much — never  come  to  much ;  but  they  make 
excellent  simpletons,  ripe  and  strong  flavored." 

"What  dost  say  to  that?"  said  Mr.  Poyser, 
throwing  himself  back  and  looking  merrily  at  his 
wife. 

"Say!"  answered  Mrs.  Poyser,  with  dangerous 
fire  kindling  in  her  eye ;  "why,  I  say  as  some  folk's 
tongues  are  like  the  clocks  as  run  on  strikin',  not  to 
tell  you  the  time  o'  the  day,  but  because  there's 
summat  wrong  i'  their  inside." 

Keep  on  Just  the  Same. 

SAM  WALTER  Foss. 

From  "Dreams  in  Homespun."  Copyright,  1897,  by  Lee 
&  Shepard.  Reprinted  by  special  permission. 

YOUNG  Peter,  when  he  "spoke  his  piece" 

Before  the  school  committee, 
The  superintendent,  and  a  crowd 

From  all  parts  of  the  city, 


I46  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Trembled  and  shook  in  every  limb, 

His  heart  beat  like  a  flail, 
His  face  alternate  blazed  with  fire 

Or  turned  a  deadly  pale ; 
But  Peter  was  of  hero  stuff, 

A  raw  recruit  of  fame; 
Though  he  was  frightened  half  to  death, 

He  kept  on  just  the  same. 

In  after  years,  when  he  proposed 

To  Miss   Ophelia   Gleason, 
His  trepidation  was  intense, 

Beyond  all  rule  or  reason : 
He  choked  and  stammered,  hemmed,  and  hawed, 

And  blushed  a  rosy  red; 
It  was  so  hard  to  be  alive 

He  wished  that  he  was  dead. 
But  like  the  brave  young  man  he  was, 

He  made  her  change  her  name : 
Though  he  was  frightened  half  to  death, 

He  kept  on  just  the  same. 

Fate  loves  the  fellow  who  is  scared, 

Who  trembles  in  his  dread, 
But  when  his  fears  cry  out,  "Don't  go !" 

His  will  cries,  "Go  ahead !" 
So  Peter  climbed  his  fears  like  stairs, 

And  every  fear  subdued 
But  raised  him  to  a  higher  plane 

And  sunnier  altitude. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

He  left  his  youth's  obscurer  mists, 
And  climbed  the  crags  of  fame; 

Though  he  was  frightened  half  to  death, 
He  kept  on  just  the  same. 

There  is  a  slave  whose  name  is  Fear, 

A  trembling,  cringing  thing; 
There  is  a  king  whose  name  is  Will, 

And  every  inch  a  king. 
The  king  and  slave  have  their  abodes, 

And  work  their  joint  control, 
Their  mingled  work  of  blight  and  bloom, 

In  every  mortal's  soul. 
But  strong  is  he  who  heeds  the  king, 

And  laughs  the  slave  to  shame ; 
Who,  although  frightened  half  to  death, 

Still  keeps  on  just  the  same. 

Go,  fight  the  battles  of  the  day, 

The  spectres  of  the  night, 
And,  though  you  tremble  with  your  fears, 

Still  tremble  on — and  fight. 
What  though  the  man  turn  pale  with  fear, 

And  quake  and  tremble  long, 
If  the  proud  will  within  the  man 

Be  resolute  and  strong? 
Then  throne  king  Will  within  the  man, 

And  laugh  slave  Fear  to  shame; 
Though  you  are  frightened  half  to  death, 

Still  keep  on  just  the  same. 


!48  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

The  Model  Wife. 
BILL  NYE. 

I  WILL  tell  how  the  young  man  with  bright  hopes, 
and  thinking  only  of  the  great,  consuming  love  he 
has  for  his  new  spouse,  is  torn  away  from  the  hal- 
lowed ties  of  home  and  the  sunny  influences  of 
young  companions,  and  buried  in  the  poverty- 
stricken  cottage  of  a  woman  who  cannot  begin  to 
support  him  in  the  style  in  which  he  has  been 
accustomed. 

It  is  high  time  that  this  course  of  disgraceful 
misrepresentation  on  the  part  of  young  women 
should  be  exposed.  I  once  knew  a  young  man  with 
the  most  gentle  and  trustful  nature.  He  had  never 
known  care  or  sorrow.  But  an  adventuress  with 
winsome  smile  and  loving  voice  crossed  his  path 
and  allowed  him  to  think  that  she  could  maintain  a 
husband  like  other  women,  and  in  his  blind,  adora- 
tion for  her  he  bade  good-by  to  his  home  and  its 
joys  and  madly  walked  out  with  her  into  the  great, 
untried  future.  She  told  him  that  he  should  never 
know  the  cruel  sting  of  poverty,  and  other  romantic 
trash,  and  look  at  him  to-day.  He  is  a  broken- 
hearted man.  His  wife  does  not  take  him  into 
society;  does  not  keep  him  clothed  as  other  men 
are  clothed,  and  grudgingly  gives  him  the  little 
pittance  from  week  to  week  which  she  earns  by 
washing. 

Is  it  strange  that  his  pillow  is  wet  with  tears,  and 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


149 


in  his  agony  he  cries  out  upon  the  still  air  of  night, 
"O  mother,  why  did  I  leave  thy  kindly  protection 
and  overshadowing  love  and  marry  a  total 
stranger?" 

I  have  always  maintained  that  a  kind  word  and 
a  caress  will  do  more  for  the  great  yearning  nature 
of  the  husband  than  harshness  and  severity.  The 
true  wife  may  reprove  her  husband  when  he  spills 
coal  all  over  the  Brussels  carpet  and  then  steps  on 
it  and  grinds  it  in,  but  how  much  better  even  that 
is  than  to  kick  him  under  the  bed  and  then  sit  down 
on  him  and  gouge  out  his  eyes  with  a  pinking  iron. 

I  know  that  men  are  too  often  misunderstood. 
They  may  be  rough  on  the  exterior,  but  they  can 
love,  oh,  so  earnestly,  so  warmly,  so  truly,  so  deeply, 
so  intensely,  so  yearningly,  so  fondly,  and  so  uni- 
versally ! 

Always  kiss  your  husband  good-by  when  you  go 
down  town  to  your  work.  It  may  be  the  last  time. 
I  once  knew  a  wife  who  went  down  town  to  price 
a  new  dolman,  and  because  she  was  vexed  about 
something  she  did  not  kiss  her  husband  but  slammed 
the  door  and  left  him.  When  she  returned  he  was 
a  corpse! 

*  *  *  *  * 

While  peeling  the  potatoes  for  dinner  with  the 
carving-knife,  he  had  stepped  on  a  clothes-pin, 
which  threw  him  forward  over  the  baby-carriage, 
the  knife  entering  at  the  northeast  corner  of  the 
gizzard  and  sticking  out  beneath  the  shoulder-blade 


150  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

about  two  feet  into  space.  What  a  scene  for  the 
now  repentant  wife!  There,  in  the  full  vigor  of 
his  manhood,  lay  all  that  was  mortal  of  her  com- 
panion— dead  as  a  mackerel !  !  ! 

Let  us  take  this  home  to  ourselves,  and  ask  our- 
selves to-day  if  we  are  doing  the  square  thing  by 
the  only  husband  we  have.  Are  we  loving  him  as 
we  should,  or  are  we  turning  this  task  over  to  the 
hired  girl? 

Intemperance,  too,  is  a  fruitful  cause  of  con- 
nubial unhappiness.  Young  man,  beware  of  a  wife 
who  loves  the  flowing  bowl.  I  once  knew  a  beauti- 
ful young  lady,  talented  and  with  good  business 
ability.  The  entire  circle  of  her  acquaintance 
admired  and  respected  her,  but  alas !  one  evening 
at  a  banquet  her  companion,  with  a  heavenly  smile, 
asked  her  to  drink  wine.  Gradually  the  taste  grew 
upon  her,  and  although  she  married,  she  could  not 
support  her  husband,  and  he  gradually  pined  away 
and  died  broken-hearted.  He  used  to  sit  up  nights 
for  her  to  come  home,  and  he  caught  the  inflamma- 
tory rheumatism  and  swelled  up  and  died.  It  was 
a  terrible  thing.  I  tell  you  we  cannot  be  too  careful. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  jcjj 

Rubaiyat  of  Mathieu  Lettellier. 

WALLACE  BRUCE  AMSBARY. 

From   "Ballads   of   Bourbonnais."     Copyright,    1904,   by 
the  Bobbs-Merrill  Co.     Reprinted  by  permission. 

DERE'S  six  children  in  our  fam'lee, 

Dey's  mos'ly  girls  an'  boys ; 
'Toinette  an'  me  wos  t'ankful  sure 

For  all  de  happy  joys; 
Dere's  Pierre,  an'  little  Rosalie, 

Antoine,  Marie,  and  Jeanne, 
An'  Paul  he's  com'  now  soon  twelf  year, 

Mos'  close  to  be  a  man. 

I's  lof  all  of  la  petite  femmc, 

De  gargon  mak'  me  proud, 
I  haf  gr'ad  aspiratione 

For  all  dat  little  crowd ; 
My  Pierre  shall  be  wan  doctor  mans, 

Rosalie  will  teach  school, 
Antoine  an'  Jeanne  shall  rone  de  farm, 

Marie  som'  man  will  rule. 

An'  Paul  shall  be  a  cure  sure, 

I'll  haf  heem  educate', 
I  work  it  all  out  on  my  head, 

Oh,  I  am  moch  elate ; 
Dis  all  of  course  w'en  dey  grow  op ; 

But  I  t'ink  'bout  it  now; 
So  w'en  de  tarn'  was  com'  for  ac', 

I'll  know  de  way  an'  how. 


152 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


Long  tarn'  ago,  w'en  Paul  firs'  com', 

He  mak'  a  lot  of  noise ; 
He's  keep  me  trot,  hot'  day  an'  night, 

He  was  wan  naughty  boys  ; 
At  wan  o'clock,  at  two  o'clock, 

Annec  ol'  tarn'  suit  heem, 
He's  mak'  us  geeve  de  gran'  parade 

Jus'  as  he  tak'  de  w'im. 

Sooding  molass'  an'  peragork, 

On  heem  ve  pour  it  down, 
An'  soon  he  let  his  music  op, 

An'  don'  ac'  more  lak'  clown, 
And  den  ma  fcmmc  an'  me  lay  down 

To  get  a  little  doze, 
For  w'en  you  are  wan  fam'lee  man 

You  don'  gat  moch  repose. 

But  wat's  de  use  to  mak'  de  kick, 

Dees  fellows  boss  de  place; 
I'd  radder  hear  de  healt'y  lung 

An'  see  de  ruddy  face 
Dan  run  a  gr'ad  big  doctor's  bill, 

An'  geeve  de  ol'  sextonc 
De  job,  for  bury  all  my  kids, 

An*  leave  me  all  alone. 

An'  so  our  hands  is  quite  ver'  full, 
Will  be,  for  som'  tarn  long, 

But  ven  old  age  is  dreeft  our  vay 
An'  rest  is  our  belong, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

It's  den  ve'll  miss  de  gran'  racquctte, — 

May  want  again  de  noise 
Of  six  more  little  children 

An'  mos'ly  girls  an'  boys. 


153 


The  New  Arrival. 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON  CABLE. 

THERE  came  to  port  last  Sunday  night 

The  queerest  little  craft, 
Without  an  inch  of  rigging  on ; 

I  looked  and  looked — and  laughed ! 
It  seemed  so  curious  that  she 

Should  cross  the  Unknown  water, 
And  moor  herself  within  my  room — 

My  daughter !    O  my  daughter ! 

Yet  by  these  presents  witness  all 

She's  welcome  fifty  times, 
And  comes  consigned  in  hope  and  love — 

And  common-metre  rhymes. 
She  has  no  manifest  but  this, 

No  flag  floats  o'er  the  water; 
She's  too  new  for  the  British  Lloyds— 

My  daughter  !    O  my  daughter ! 

Ring  out,  wild  bells — and  tame  ones  too, 

Ring  out  the  lover's  moon; 
Ring  in  the  little  worsted  socks, 

Ring  in  the  bib  and  spoon. 


154 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Ring  out  the  muse,  ring  in  the  nurse, 
Ring  in  the  milk  and  water ; 

Away  with  paper,  pen,  and  ink — 
My  daughter!    O  my  daughter! 


A  Violent  Remedy. 
JOHN   SEYMOUR  WOOD. 

From  "Yale  Yarns."  Copyright,  1895.  By  special  per- 
mission of  the  author. 

SUSCEPTIBLE  Adolphus  Austin,  during  the  long 
vacation  of  the  previous  summer,  had  met  at  Bar 
Harbor,  and  afterward  followed  to  the  mountains, 
a  certain  Miss  Fanny  Gower,  who,  from  all 
accounts,  was  not  bad. 

Adolphus  had  followed  his  inamorata  down  from 
Mt.  Desert  to  the  Profile  House,  and  had  danced 
and  flirted  with  her  all  through  August  and  Sep- 
tember, and  just  before  his  return  to  college,  on  a 
coaching  -party  through  the  mountains,  had  been 
gently  but  distinctly  informed  that  she  could  only 
hold  to  him  the  position  of  a  devoted  sister. 

He  was  a  good  fellow, — and  the  girl,  of  course, 
had  treated  him  shamefully, — so  his  chum  said ; 
and  he  ought  to  be  glad  to  give  up  such  a  cruel- 
hearted  flirt  and  whistle  her  down  the  winds,  etc. 
With  the  "crowd,"  any  girl  who  had  been  at  all 
"repellent"  was  an  arch  flirt. 

"Yes,  she  is  just  a  nice  tidy  little  flirt, — that's 
all,"  said  Aldrich,  half  provoked,  half  laughing, 
"but  she's  spoiled  him." 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


155 


"There's  only  one  way  to  cure  a  love-sick  fool," 
said  Little  Jack  Horner.  "Get  him  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  new  girl.  Then,  when  he's  fallen  out  with 
the  new  girl,  he's  cured — see?" 

"Oh,  Tom,"  called  Little  Jack,  "come  in  here!" 

At  the  moment  Tom  Keith  was  in  his  bedroom 
trying  on  his  make-up  for  the  joint-play  (Psi  U 
and  D.K.E.),  and  as  he  was  cast  for  a  fashionable 
daughter  of  a  tremendously  rich  banker,  his  sud- 
den apparition  at  the  door  astonished  Aldrich  to  a 
degree.  Keith  made  the  prettiest  girl  in  college  by 
all  odds. 

"My  boy — I  mean  girl — you  are  a  winner!  I'd 
never  know  you !"  exclaimed  Aldrich,  in  admira- 
tion. "If  you  zvcrc  one,  now,  I'd  have  to  speak  to 
your  father!" 

"Say,  Tom,  what  do  you  say  to  having  a  little 
sport  out  of  Adolphus?  He's  love-sick,  you  know, 
all  girled  up.  It's  our  duty  to  get  him  out  of  it." 

"How?" 

"Put  on  your  sacque  and  go  over  and  pretend 
to  want  to  see  Aldrich,  and  say  you  will  wait  for 
him  to  return ;  Austin  is  there.  Be  rather  reserved 
at  first, — try  it, — and  don't  let  him  find  out  who 
you  are." 

"What  the  deuce  shall  I  talk  about?" 

"Oh, — say  you're  a  cousin  of  Laze, — and  that 
you  are  down  from  school  for  a  few  days — you 
can  work  it  as  you  see  he  bites  or  not." 

"Yes, — and,  by  the  way,  you  might  hint  at  hav- 
ing a  broken  heart  about  you." 


156  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"After  half  an  hour  or  so,  Laze  will  go  back, 
and  be  so  surprised  to  see  his  cousin  'Bessie,'  and 
introduce  you.  Then  you'd  better  make  some 
excuse,  Laze,  and  get  out  again.  And,  Tom,  you 
make  an  appointment  to-night,  late,  after  your 
rehearsal,  with  Austin,  and  take  a  moonlight  drive 
with  him/' 

"I'm  willing, — if  we  can  make  it  go  all  right," 
said  Keith.  "But  you  must  all  stand  by  me." 

"Oh,  we'll  take  care  of  that — we'll  set  him  up  a 
dinner  afterward; — a  dinner  always  straightens 
everything  out,  you  know." 

So  after  a  little,  Keith,  now  to  be  known  as  Miss 
Bessie  Aldrich,  just  from  school,  slipped  out  of  the 
room,  and  so  over  to  north  entry,  Welch,  up  two 
flights,  and  knocked  timidly  at  Austin  and  Aldrich's 
door. 

"Come,"  sang  out  Austin,  concluding  from  the 
gentle  knock  that  it  was  his  washerwoman. 

The  door  opened,  and  Bessie  entered ;  Adolphus, 
who  was  seated  with  his  back  to  the  door,  over  a 
long  pipe  in  a  deep-bottomed  easy  chair,  did  not 
turn  to  look  at  her. 

"Just  lay  it  down  anywhere,  Mrs.  Gimly,  and 
I'll  pay  you  when  you  call  Saturday.  Owe  you  for 
last  week,  don't  I?  By  the  way,  you  always  seem, 
most  lamentably,  to  exhaust  all  your  starch, 
intended  for  my  collars  and  shirts,  in  my  towels  and 
underclothing.  Now,  I  don't  care  to  have  my  silk 
socks  star " 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


157 


He  bounced  out  of  his  easy  chair,  and  proceeded 
to  make  a  dozen  apologies  at  once  to  the  pretty 
blonde,  who  appeared  to  be  extremely  shocked. 

"Is  my  cousin,  Mr.  Aldrich,  in?"  Bessie  asked 
timidly  as  he  finished. 

"No, — not  at  present.  He  stepped  out  a  moment 
ago.  Won't  you  be  seated  and  wait  for  him  ?  He'll 
be  back  presently." 

"Thanks.  I — I  came  down  from  school  to  see 
Cousin  Dick,  and — I'm  to  be  in  New  Haven  a  few 
days." 

"Oh,  that's  very  good  of  you,  and  my  chum  will 
be  delighted  to  see  you, — I'm  sure — I — I  didn't 
know  he  had  a  cousin  at  school." 

"I've  heard -so  much  about  you,  Mr.  Austin,  from 
Cousin  Dick — he  has  told  me  how  bright  you  are, 
— and  h — how  you  despise  girls." 

"I,  despise  girls?  I  may  not  approve  of  girls — 
but  I  do  not  despise  them !"  And  Adolphus  beamed 
compassionately  upon  her. 

"Er — er — is  this  your  first  visit  to  New  Haven?" 

"Yes." 

"I  hope  it  won't  be  your  last." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"Suppose  I  put  on  my  hat,  and  while  we  wait  for 
my  chum, — suppose  I  show  you  around  the  build- 
ings. The  windows  in  the  library  are  considered 
quite  good " 

"Oh,  let  us  wait  for  Cousin  Dick."  She  glanced 
quickly,  half  coquettishly  at  him,  and  he  quickly 


158  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

recognized  the  fact  that  she  was  pretty,  and  that 
she  demanded  from  him  the  admiration  due  a  pretty 
girl. 

Bessie  kept  putting  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips 
in  an  odd  sort  of  way,  and  half  hiding  herself 
behind  the  curtain.  It  was  difficult  for  him  to  judge 
of  her  face, — to  decide  that  she  was  a  blown  beauty, 
— he  could  only  judge  so  from  the  furtive  side 
glances  she  gave  him. 

Then  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Bessie  gave 
a  little  scream,  and  said:  "Oh,  I  am  so  frightened! 
I'll  just  step  in  here,  if  I  may, — and  close  the  door." 

Then  Aldrich  entered.  Austin  told  him  that  his 
cousin  had  called,  and  was  waiting  for  him  in  the 
next  room.  Upon  the  room  being  opened,  however, 
Bessie  was  not  to  be  seen. 

"Well !"  exclaimed  Austin.  "Your  cousin  li'as 
here, — and  she  went  into  your  room  on  hearing 
Tutor  Blinky  knock.  But  where  she  is  now, — it's 
a  mystery !" 

"Why,  Austin,  my  dear  boy,  you  are  dreaming! 
The  only  cousin  I  have  is  at  school,  up  at  Hartford." 

"But  she  was  here, — in  that  chair, — only  a  fe^y 
minutes  ago.-  Very  pretty  girl,  too." 

"I  think  you've  got  all  girled  up  over  that  Miss 
Gower, — you  have  them  on  the  brain!  If  my 
cousin  (who  by  the  way  is  quite  an  heiress,  Adol- 
phus)  was  here,  why  isn't  she  here  now?  She  was 
quite  a  substantial  young  lady  the  last  time  I  saw 
her." 


FOR   READING  AND   SPEAKING. 


159 


"She  is  still, — she's  very  easy  people.  By  Jove, — 
she  couldn't  have  got  out  of  my  window,  of  course, 
— but,  where  is  she?" 

''Poor  old  chap!  you  have  had  an  hallucination, 
as  they  call  it.  Describe  her.  If  you've  been  asleep 
and  dreamed  of  Cousin  Bessie,  it's  a  strange  thing, 
but  it's  happened  before  to  people." 

"It  is  true  I  was  almost  asleep  when  she  came 
in, — and  first  thought  she  was  my  washerwoman." 

"The  whole  thing  has  been  a  hypnotic  suggestion. 
You  never  saw  my  cousin  really,  you  saw  a  projec- 
tion of  her,  as  they  call  it." 

Presently  in  came  a  number  of  fellows,  and  later 
on  Keith  in  his  ordinary  clothes  entered.  And 
Austin,  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart,  told  them  about 
the  beautiful  apparition,  enlarging  upon  her  beauty 
and  style  until  they  could  with  difficulty  keep  from 
laughing. 

"It's  because  you  are  so  hipped  on  a  girl  you 
think  you  see  one  behind  every  bush !"  laughed  his 
chum.  "I  believe  you're  going  crazy." 

A  few  moments  later,  a  messenger  boy  brought 
a  telegram  which  read: 

RICHARD  B.  ALUKICH,  Yale  College. 

Will  be  down  on  the  evening  train.     Please  meet  me. 

BESSIE. 

"That  is  strange !  She  has  'projected'  herself 
into  your  mind,  Billy !  The  telegram  is  dated  Hart- 
ford." 

After  they  had  all  gone,  and  as  they  were  pre- 


l6o  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

paring  to  go  out  to  afternoon  recitation,  Austin 
said: 

"It's  queer  I  never  had  an  hallucination  about 
Fanny  Gower,  or  Kate  Flemming,  or  the  others." 

"That's  because  they  never  cared  for  you." 

"But  Bessie ?" 

"She's  heard  a  good  deal  about  you,  Adolphus— 
I've  told  her  a  lot.  Who  knows  but  the  dear  girl 
has  been  cherishing  your  image  in  her  secret  heart ! 
She  saw  your  photo  once  at  home,  I  remember, — 
and  she  said,  That's  a  fine-looking  chum  of  yours.' 
I  dare  say  she  has  scribbled  your  name  all  over  her 
Fasquelle, — as  girls  will, — you  know  it's  a  way  they 
have !" 

"Absurd !" 

But  it  was  evident  that  Adolphus  was  secretly 
very  well  pleased  with  the  idea. 

They  walked  over  to  the  recitation-room  in 
silence,  Austin  meditating  upon  the  surprising 
events  of  the  afternoon.  Just  before  they  entered, 
he  said :  "Forgive  me,  old  man,  but  when  she  comes 
to-night,  and  you  happen  to  speak  of  me, — I — I 
wouldn't  say  anything  about  the  Gower  matter, — 
eh?" 

"No,  certainly  not!" 

"And, — do  caution  Miss  Bessie  on  going  about 
alone, — er — er — Very  odd  about  her  'counterfeit 
presentment' — wasn't  it  ?  I  don't  think  I  could  have 
been  asleep." 

And  Aldrich  gave  him  an  understanding  glance, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  161 

as  they  entered  recitation.  "I  see,"  he  said,  "you 
think  if  it  was  not  a  dream  it  was  highly  improper?" 

"Oh,  no— but " 

"Well,  I  will  see  that  she  is  properly  chaper- 
oned— 

Bessie  duly  arrived  that  night,  was  properly  in- 
troduced to  Austin,  and  for  the  week  following  met 
him  by  appointment  each  evening,  and  took  the 
most  entrancing  moonlight  drives  with  him  and 
"Cousin  Dick/'  explaining  that  she  was  visiting 
people  in  New  Haven,  who  were  dead  opposed  to 
romance  and  extremely  strict,  and  who,  in  fact, 
forbade  students  the  house.  The  affair  had  such  a 
strange  beginning  for  Austin,  and  was  kept  up 
under  such  odd,  romantic  circumstances,  with  such 
mysterious  meetings,  and  Bessie  showed  so  much 
feeling  for  him  (she  had,  however,  not  yet  allowed 
him  to  kiss  her),  that  his  wicked  chum  was  able  to 
report  that  Fanny  Gower's  name  had  not  been  men- 
tioned since  the  day  of  the  apparition ! 

Bessie  herself  so  arranged  and  ordered  it  that  at 
last  he  confessed  he  loved  her,  with  an  audience 
of  four  or  five  delighted  Juniors  in  hiding.  Poor 
Adolphus  was  fairly  caught  in  the  trap ! 

"But, — Mr.  Austin, — I've  heard, — a  little  bird 
has  told  me  that  there  is  another." 

"You  allude  to  Fanny  Gower?  I  assure  you, 
Bessie, — that  affair  is  all  over." 

They  stood  together  beneath  a  gas-lamp,  on 
Whalley  Avenue,  where  they  had  just  alighted  from 
their  open  phaeton. 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


"But  I  come  to  you,  —  Adolphus  —  without  a  'first' 
affair." 

"I  know,  —  but  really,  I  find  I  never  cared  for 
Fanny  —  it  was  a  momentary,  —  a  foolish  episode.  I 
repent  of  it,  —  deeply." 

"You  must  wait.  I  can't  say  that  you  are  alto- 
gether repugnant  to  me.  I  can't  deny,  dear,  you 
have  an  awfully  winning  way  !" 

"Dear  Bessie!" 

"But  on  next  Friday  night,  —  I  shall  be  at  the 
joint  theatricals.  Until  then  you  must  wait,  —  and 
not  see  me.  I  expect  to  be  busy.  Tell  me  that 
night,  if  —  you  —  still  love  me  —  and  write  me  in  the 
care  of  Cousin  Dick  every  day." 

"And  you'll  give  me  a  kiss  to  remember  you  till 
then  ?  —  that's  four  days  off,  Bessie  !" 

"No,  I  never  kissed  a  man  in  my  life."  And  this, 
of  course,  was  strictly  true. 

"Oh,  Bessie!" 

Austin  grasped  her  in  his  arms  and  tried  to  kiss 
her,  but  received  a  powerful  slap  which  sent  him 
reeling.  Then  Bessie  turned  and  walked  rapidly 
off  in  the  darkness.  She  was  on  her  dignity. 

"Gad  !  —  what  a  muscle  that  girl  has  got  !"  ex- 
claimed poor  Adolphus,  ruefully.  "These  modern 
athletic  girls  are  —  are  easily  capable  of  taking  care 
of  themselves!" 

During  the  ensuing  four  days  Austin  was  in 
despair. 

The  strict  relatives  were  stricter  than  ever,  and 
Bessie  could  not  be  seen  at  all. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  163 

At  last  the  night  of  the  joint  play  came  around. 
The  fashionable  daughter  of  a  tremendously  rich 
banker,  as  the  pretty  girl  of  the  piece,  made 
a  great  hit  in  the  comedy  played,  and  no  one  in 
all  the  audience  was  hit  harder  than  Austin,  who, 
in  evening  dress,  occupied  a  seat  in  the  front  row 
of  the  gallery. 

"Why,  they've  got  a  real  girl — Bessie  Aldrich— 
in  the  daughter's  part!"  he  said,  surprised,  as  she 
came  on  in  the  first  act. 

"Yes,"  said  Little  Jack  Horner,  next  to  him. 
"We  had  to  call  in  a  little  outside  talent." 

"But  it  says  'Belinda— T.  W.  Keith.'  That's 
Tom  Keith !" 

"Oh,  that's  a  blind!"  laughed  Aldrich  on  the 
other  side.  "She  didn't  want  to  let  every  fool  in 
the  audience  know  she  wasn't  a  student." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Adolphus,  thoughtfully. 

"Do  you?"  laughed  Little  Jack  Horner. 

"So  they  got  Bessie  to  act — Well!  Isn't  she 
lovely?  Why  didn't  she  tell  me?" 

"Kept  it  as  a  surprise,"  said  Aldrich. 

"Oh — I  see!"  said  Austin,  slowly,  and  then  he 
added :  "By— Jehoshaphat !  Jinks  !" 

Adolphus  Austin  fastened  his  eyes  on  the  Leauti- 
ful  daughter  of  the  rich  banker  in  apparently  utter 
entrancement.  At  the  first  intermission,  he  hastened 
out,  was  gone  some  time  and  brought  in  with  him 
a  huge  bouquet  of  flowers.  He  then  fastened  his 
card  on  the  handle,  and  threw  it  full  at  Bessie,  when 
she  came  on  the  stage,  in  the  second  act. 


164  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

The  bouquet  struck  her  full  in  the  chest  and  floored 
her.  It  was  flung  as  hard  as  an  angry  and  sorely 
deceived  man  could  fling  it, — and  it  was  largely 
made  up  of  a  heavy  cabbage.  Bessie  sat  down 
rather  hard  in  the  middle  of  the  stage  and  gazed 
at  the  crowded  and  noisy  house  in  amazement,  and 
at  Austin  in  particular,  with — 

"Oh,  Adolphus! — how  could  you  be  so  rude!" 
and  then  there  were  roars  of  laughter. 

On  the  card  Austin  had  written  hastily  the  lines 
from  Byron, 

I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain, 

I    only    feel, — Farewell !     Farewell ! 

— ADOLPHUS. 

At  the  dinner  they  gave  Austin,  to  soothe  his 
wounded  vanity,  Austin  said  seriously,  "I  am  cured 
of  ever  wanting  to  speak  to  another  girl  as  long  as 
I  live.  Boys,  you've  done  the  trick.  Henceforth 
I'm  a  misogynist!" 

But  the  very  next  summer  Adolphus  changed  his 
mind. 


When  a  Man's  in  Love. 

NIXON  WATERMAN. 

From  "In  Merry  Mood."     Copyright,  1902.     By  special 
permission  of  the  publishers,  Forbes  &  Co. 

LIFE'S  a  jolly  jag  of  joy 

When  a  man's  in  love. 
He's  as  happy  and  as  coy 

As  a  turtle-dove. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

All  the  world  is  fair  and  nice 
And  as  sweet  as  Paradise; 
Everything's  worth  twice  the  price 
When  a  man's  in  love. 

T  ife's  a  big  bouquet  of  bliss 

When  a  man's  in  love. 
Earth  is  yearning  just  to  kiss 

With  the  stars  above. 
Then  her  smile  is  all  there  is 
In  the  world,  excepting  his ; 
Say!    It's  something  great,  gee  whiz! 

When  a  man's  in  love. 

Life's  a  mellow  mess  of  mirth 

When  a  man's  in  love. 
Heaven  comes  to  dwell  with  earth, 

Walking  hand  and  glove. 
Then  all  creatures,  low  and  high, 
Putting  other  duties  by, 
Just  lay  off  to  watch  the  guy 

When  a  man's  in  love. 


Two  Fishers. 
ANONYMOUS. 

ONE  morning  when  spring  was  in  her  teens — ? 

A  morn  to  a  poet's  wishing, 
All  tinted  in  delicate  pinks  and  greens — 

Miss  Bessie  and  I  went  fishing. 


j66  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

I  in  my  rough-and-easy  clothes, 

With  my  face  at  the  sun-tan's  mercy ; 

She  with  her  hat  tipped  down  to  her  nose, 
And  her  nose  tipped — rice  rcrsa. 

I  with  my  rod,  my  reel,  and  my  hooks, 
And  a  hamper  for  lunching  recesses; 

She  with  the  bait  of  her  comely  looks, 
And  the  seine  of  her  golden  tresses. 

So  we  sat  us  down  on  the  sunny  dike, 
Where  the  white  pond-lilies  teeter, 

And  I  went  to  fishing  like  quaint  old  Ike, 
And  she  like  Simon  Peter. 

All  the  noon  I  lay  in  the  light  of  her  eyes, 
And  dreamily  watched  and  waited, 

But  the  fish  were  cunning  and  would  not  rise, 
And  the  baiter  alone  was  baited. 

And  when  the  time  of  departure  came, 
My  bag  hung  flat  as  a  flounder ; 

But  Bessie  had  neatly  hooked  her  game — 
A  hundred-and-fifty-pounder. 


Christian  Science. 

MARK  TWAIN. 

An  extract   from  "Christian   Science   and  the  Book  of 
Mrs.  Eddy,"  published  in  the  Cosmopolitan  Magazine. 

THIS  last  summer  I  fell  over  a  cliff  in  the  twilight 
and  broke  some  arms  and  legs  and  one  thing  or 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


I67 


another,  and  by  good  luck  was  found  by  some  peas- 
ants, and  they  carried  me  to  the  nearest  habitation. 
There  was  a  village  a  mile  away,  and  a  horse-doctor 
lived  there,  but  there  was  no  surgeon.  It  seemed  a 
bad  outlook;  mine  was  distinctly  a  surgery  case. 
Then  it  was  remembered  that  a  lady  from  Boston 
was  summering  in  that  village,  and  she  was  a  Chris- 
tian Science  doctor  and  could  cure  anything.  So  she 
was  sent  for.  It  was  night  by  this  time,  and  she 
could  not  conveniently  come,  but  sent  word  that 
it  was  no  matter,  there  was  no  hurry;  she  would 
give  me  "absent  treatment"  now,  and  come  in 
the  morning. 

"Did  you  tell  her  I  walked  off  a  cliff  seventy-five 
feet  high?" 

."I  did.  I  told  her  what  you  told  me  to  tell  her: 
that  you  were  now  but  an  incoherent  series  of  com- 
pound fractures  extending  from  your  scalp-lock 
to  your  heels,  and  that  the  comminuted  projections 
caused  you  to  look  like  a  hat-rack." 

"But  I  am  hungry,  and  thirsty,  and  in  desperate 
pain." 

"She  said  you  would  have  these  delusions,  but 
must  pay  no  attention  to  them.  She  wants  you  to 
particularly  remember  that  there  are  no  such  things 
as  hunger  and  thirst  and  pain." 

"She  does,  does  she?" 

"It  is  what  she  said." 

"Does  she  seem  to  be  in  full  and  functionable 
possession  of  her  intellectual  plant,  such  as  it  is? 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Do  they  let  her  run  at  large,  or  do  they  tie  her  up?" 

It  was  a  night  of  anguish,  of  course — at  least,  I 
supposed  it  was,  for  it  had  all  the  symptoms  of  it — 
but  it  passed  at  last,  and  the  Christian  Scientist 
came  and  I  was  glad.  She  was  middle-aged,  and 
large  and  bony,  and  erect,  and  had  an  austere  face 
and  a  resolute  jaw  and  a  Roman  beak  and  was  a 
widow  in  the  third  degree,  and  her  name  was  Ful- 
ler. I  was  eager  to  get  to  business  and  find  relief, 
but  she  was  distressingly  deliberate.  She  unpinned 
and  unhooked  and  uncoupled  her  upholsteries  one 
by  one,  abolished  the  wrinkles  with  a  flirt  of  her 
hand  and  hung  the  articles  up  ;  peeled  off  her  gloves 
and  disposed  of  them,  got  a  book  out  of  her  hand- 
bag, then  drew  a  chair  to  the  bedside,  descended 
into  it  without  hurry,  and  I  hung  out  my  tongue. 
She  said,  with  pity,  but  without  passion: 

"Return  it  to  its  receptacle.  We  deal  with  the 
mind  only,  not  with  its  dumb  servants." 

I  could  not  offer  my  pulse,  because  the  connec- 
tion was  broken. 

"One  does  not  fed"  she  explained ;  "there  is  no 
such  thing  as  feeling;  therefore,  to  speak  of  a  non- 
existent thing  as  existent  is  a  contradiction.  Matter 
has  no  existence;  nothing  exists  but  mind;  the 
mind  cannot  feel  pain;  it  can  only  imagine  it." 

"But  if  it  hurts,  just  the  same— 

"It  doesn't.  A  thing  which  is  unreal  cannot 
exercise  the  functions  of  reality.  Pain  is  unreal ; 
hence,  pain  cannot  hurt." 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


169 


In  making  a  sweeping  gesture  to  indicate  the  act 
of  shooing  the  illusion  of  pain  out  of  the  mind,  she 
raked  her  hand  on  a  pin  in  her  dress,  said  "Ouch !" 
and  went  tranquilly  on  with  her  talk.  "You  should 
never  allow  yourself  to  speak  of  how  you  feel. 
Such  talk  only  encourages  the  mind  to  continue  its 
empty  imaginings."  Just  at  that  point  that  Stuben- 
madchen  trod  on  the  cat's  tail,  and  the  cat  let  fly  a 
frenzy  of  cat  profanity.  I  asked,  with  caution : 

"Is  a  cat's  opinion  about  pain  valuable?" 

"A  cat  has  no  opinions;  opinions  proceed  from 
mind  only ;  the  lower  animals,  being  eternally  per- 
ishable, have  not  been  granted  mind ;  without  mind, 
opinion  is  impossible." 

"She  merely  imagined  she  felt  pain — the  cat?" 

"She  cannot  imagine  a  pain,  for  imagination  is 
an  effect  of  mind ;  without  mind,  there  is  no  imag- 
ination. A  cat  has  no  imagination." 

"Then  she  had  a  real  pain?" 

"I  have  already  told  you  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  real  pain." 

"It  is  strange  and  interesting.  I  do  wonder  what 
was  the  matter  with  the  cat.  Because,  there  being 
no  such  thing  as  a  real  pain,  and  she  not  being  able 
to  imagine  an  imaginary  one,  it  would  seem  that 
God  in  His  pity  has  compensated  the  cat  with  some 
kind  of  a  mysterious  emotion  usable  when  her  tail 
is  trodden  on  which  for  the  moment  joins  cat  and 
Christian  in  one  common  brotherhood  of— — " 

She  broke  in  with  an  irritated — 


170 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


"Peace !  The  cat  feels  nothing,  the  Christian 
feels  nothing.  Your  empty  and  foolish  imaginings 
are  profanation  and  blasphemy,  and  can  do  you  an 
injury.  It  is  wiser  and  better  and  holier  to  recog- 
nize and  confess  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  dis- 
ease or  pain  or  death." 

"I  am  full  of  imaginary  tortures,"  I  said,  "but  I 
do  not  think  I  could  be  any  more  uncomfortable  if 
they  were  real  ones.  What  must  I  do  to  get  rid  of 
them?" 

"There  is  no  occasion  to  get  rid  of  them,  since 
they  do  not  exist.  They  are  illusions  propagated 
by  matter,  and  matter  has  no  existence ;  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  matter. 

"It  is  quite  simple,"  she  said;  "the  fundamental 
propositions  of  Christian  Science  explain  it,  and 
they  are  summarized  in  the  four  following  self-evi- 
dent propositions:  i.  God  is  All  in  all.  2.  God 
is  good.  Good  is  Mind.  3.  God,  Spirit,  being  all, 
nothing  is  matter.  4.  Life,  God,  omnipotent  Good, 
deny  death,  evil,  sin,  disease.  There — now  you  see." 

It  seemed  nebulous ;  it  did  not  seem  to  say  any- 
thing about  the  difficulty  in  hand — how  non-existent 
matter  can  propagate  illusions.  I  said,  with  some 
hesitancy : 

"Does — does  it  explain?" 

"Doesn't  it?  Even  if  read  backward  it  will 
do  it." 

With  a  budding  hope,  I  asked  her  to  do  it  back- 
ward. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  j-j 

"Very  well.  Disease  sin  evil  death  deny  Good 
omnipotent  God  life  matter  is  nothing  all  being 
Spirit  God  Mind  is  Good  good  is  God  all  in  All  is 
God.  There — do  you  understand  now?" 

"It — it — well,  it  is  plainer  than  it  was  before; 
still " 

"Well  ?" 

"Could  you  try  it  some  more  ways?" 

"As  many  as  you  like ;  it  always  means  the 
same.  .  .  .  Soul  is  God,  unchangeable  and  eternal, 
and  man  coexists  with  and  reflects  Soul,  for  the 
All-in-all  is  the  Altogether,  and  the  Altogether 
embraces  the  All-one,  Soul-Mind,  Mind-Soul,  Love, 
Spirit,  Bones,  Liver,  one  of  a  series,  alone  and 
without  an  equal." 

She  left  Mrs.  Eddy's  book  and  departed,  saying 
she  would  give  me  absent  treatment. 

Under  the  powerful  influence  of  the  near  treat- 
ment and  the  absent  treatment  together,  my  bones 
were  gradually  retreating  inward  and  disappearing 
from  view.  The  good  work  took  a  brisk  start,  now, 
and  went  on  quite  swiftly.  My  body  was  diligently 
straining  and  stretching,  this  way  and  that,  to 
accommodate  the  processes  of  restoration,  and 
every  minute  or  two  I  heard  a  dull  click  inside  and 
knew  that  the  two  ends  of  a  fracture  had  been  suc- 
cessfully joined.  This  muffled  clicking  and  gritting 
and  grinding  and  rasping  continued  during  the  next 
three  hours,  and  then  stopped — the  connections  had 
all  been  made.  All  except  dislocations ;  there  were 


172 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


only  seven  of  these:  hips,  shoulders,  knees,  neck; 
so  that  was  soon  over;  one  after  another  they 
slipped  into  their  sockets  with  a  sound  like  pulling 
a  distant  cork,  and  I  jumped  up  as  good  as  new,  as 
to  framework,  and  sent  for  the  horse-doctor. 

I  was  obliged  to  do  this  because  I  had  a  stomach- 
ache and  a  cold  in  the  head,  and  I  was  not  willing  to 
trust  these  things  any  longer  in  the  hands  of  a 
woman  whom  I  did  not  know,  and  in  whose  ability 
to  successfully  treat  mere  disease  I  had  lost  all 
confidence. 

The  horse-doctor  came,  a  pleasant  man  and  full 
of  hope  and  professional  interest  in  the  case.  In 
the  matter  of  smell  he  was  pretty  aromatic,  in  fact, 
quite  horsy,  and  I  tried  to  arrange  with  him  for 
absent  treatment ;  but  it  was  not  in  his  line,  so  out 
of  delicacy  I  did  not  press  it.  He  looked  at  my 
teeth  and  examined  my  hock,  and  said  my  age  and 
general  condition  were  favorable  to  energetic  mea- 
sures; therefore  he  would  give  me  something  to 
turn  the  stomach-ache  into  the  botts  and  the  cold 
in  the  head  into  the  blind  staggers ;  then  he  would 
be  on  his  own  beat  and  would  know  what  to  do.  He 
made  up  a  bucket  of  bran-mash,  and  said  a  dipper- 
ful  of  it  every  two  hours,  alternated  with  a  drench 
with  turpentine  and  axle-grease  in  it,  would  either 
knock  my  ailments  out  of  me  in  twenty-four  hours 
or  so  interest  me  in  other  ways  as  to  make  me  for- 
get they  were  on  the  premises.  He  administered 
my  first  dose  himself,  then  took  his  leave,  saying  I 
was  free  to  eat  and  drink  anything  I  pleased  and 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


173 


in  any  quantity  I  liked.  But  I  was  not  hungry  any 
more,  and  I  did  not  care  for  food. 

The  Christian  Scientist  was  not  able  to  cure  my 
stomach-ache  and  my  cold;  but  the  horse-doctor 
did  it.  This  convinces  me  that  Christian  Science 
claims  too  much.  In  my  opinion  it  ought  to  let 
diseases  alone  and  confine  itself  to  surgery.  There 
it  would  have  everything  its  own  way. 

The  horse-doctor  charged  me  thirty  kreutzers, 
and  I  paid  him;  in  fact,  I  doubled  it  and  gave  him 
a  shilling.  Mrs.  Fuller  brought  in  an  itemized  bill 
for  a  crate  of  broken  bones  mended  in  two  hundred 
and  thirty-four  places — one  dollar  per  fracture. 

"Nothing  exists  but  Mind?"  t 

"Nothing,"  she  answered.  "All  else  is  substance- 
less  ;  all  else  is  imaginary." 

I  gave  her  an  imaginary  check,  and  now  she  is 
suing  me  for  substantial  dollars.  It  looks  incon- 
sistent. 


Chibougamou. 

WILLIAM  HENRY  DRUMMOND. 

From  "The  Great  Fight."     Copyright,  1908.     By  special 
permission  of  the  publishers,  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 

DID  you  ever  see  an  air-hole  on  the  ice 

Wit'  de  smoke  a-risin'  roun'  about  it  dere? 

De  reever  should  be  happy  w'ere  it's  feelin'  warm 

an'  nice, 
But  she  t'ink  she  ought  to  get  a  leetle  air. 


174 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


An'  she  want  to  be  a-lookin'  on  de  sky, 

So  of  course  de  cole  win'  hit  her  on  de  nose. 

"I'll  come  up  again,"  she  say,  "on  de  spring-tarn, 

bimeby, 
But  I'm  better  now  below,"  and  off  she  goes. 

Dar's  de  way  I  feel  mese'f  on  de  farm  a  year  ago, 
Were  ev'ryt'ing  should  be  a  pleasan'  dream ; 

Lak  de  foolish  reever  dere,  I'm  not  satisfy  below, 
So  I  got  to  let  me  off  a  leetle  steam. 

Den  a  man  he  come  along  an'  he  say  to  me,  "Look 

here— 

Don't  you  know  that  place  dey  call  Chibougamou, 
Were  de  diamon'  lie  aroun'  like  mushroom  on  de 

groun', 
And  dey're  findin'  all  de  gole  and  silver,  too? 

"Wat's  de  use  of  stayin'  here  den  ?    Didn't  Johnnie 

Drutusac 

Lif  de  mor'gage  off  hees  place  an'  buy  a  cow? 
Only  gone  a  leetle  w'ile — hardly  miss  heem,  till  he's 

back  ; 

He's  easy  workin'  man  too,  an'  look  at  Johnnie 
now ! 

"Well  enough,  ma  frien',  you  know  I  can  never  tell 

delie 

Wen  I  say  de  gole  is  comin'  t'ousan'  ounces  on 
de  ton, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


175 


An'  de  solid  silver  mak'  you  feel  funny  on  de  eye, 
Lak  de  snow-blin'  on  de  winter  w'en  it  shine  de 
morning  sun. 

"I   s'pose  you   won't   believe,   but   you   know   dat 

gravel  walk 
Ma   fader  got   it    facin'   on   hees   house   at    St. 

Bidou — 

But  w'at's  de  use  of  spikin',  w'at's  de  use  of  talk? 
Dat's  de  way  you  see  de  diamon'  on  dat  place 
Chibougamou. 

"Course  you  got  to  go  an'  fin'  dem  quickly,  or  de 

stranger  man 
Come  along  wit'  plaintee  barrel — an'  you're  never 

knowin'  w'en 
Couple  o'  Yankee  off  the  State,  he  was  buyin'  all 

de  Ian'; 

Affer  dat  an'  w'ere's  your  gole  an'  silver  goin' 
den? 

"So,  Bateese,  get  up  an'  hurry,  sell  de  farm,  mon 

cher  ami, 
Leave  de  girl  an'  bring  provision,  pork  an'  bean, 

potato  too, 
Leetle  w'isky,  an'  I'll  put  heem  on  de  safe  place 

under  me 

Wile  I  sit  an'  steer  you  off  to  dat  place  Chibou- 
gamou." 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Oh!    de  day  an'  night  we're  passin',  me  dat  never 

was  before 
On  de  bush,  except  w'en  heifer  go  away  an'  den 

got  los' ; 
Oh!   de  pullin'  an'  de  haulin',  till  I'm  feelin'  purty 

sore, 

But  of  all  de  troub'  an'  worry,  de  skeeter,  he's 
de  boss. 

Beeg?  lak  de  leetle  two-mont'  robin.     Sing?   lak  a 

sawmill  on  de  spring. 
Put  de  blanket  roun'  your  body  an'  den  he  bite 

you  troo. 
Me,  I  never  tak'  hees  measure,  but  I  t'ink  across 

de  wing 

He's  tree  inch  sure — dem  skeeter,  on  dat  place 
Chibougamou. 

De  man  he's  goin'  wit'  me,  never  paddle,  never  haul, 
Jus'  smoke  an'  watch  an'  lissen  for  dat  ole  Chi- 
bougamou ; 

I  s'pose  he  can't  be  bodder  doin'  any  work  at  all, 
For  de  feller  tak'  you  dere  mus'  have  not'ing  else 
to  do. 

T'ousan'  mile  we  mak'  travel — t'ousan'  mile  an* 

mebbe  more, 

An'  I  do  be  foolish  prayin'  lak'  I  never  pray  at 
home, 


POR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  177 

'Cos  I  want  a  chance  to  get  it,  only  let  me  see  de 

shore 

Of  Chibougamou  a  little  w'ile  before  de  winter 
come. 

No  use  prayin',  no  use  climbin'  on  de  beeg  tree 

ev'ry  day, 
Lookin'  hare  to  see  de  diamon',  an'  de  silver,  an' 

de  gole — 

I  can't  see  dem,  an'  de  summer  she  begin  to  go  away, 
An'  de  day  is  gettin'  shorter,  an'  de  night  is  get- 
tin'  cole. 

So  I  kick  an'  raise  de  row  den,  an'  I  tole  ma  frien' 

lookout — 
Purty  quick  de  winter's  comin'  an'  we'll  hurry  up 

an' go; 
Never  min'  de  gole  an'  silver — diamon'  too  we'll  go 

widout, 

Or  de  on'y  wan  we're  seein',  is  de  diamon'  on  de 
snow. 

Mebbe  good  place  w'en  you  get  dere,  w'at  you  call 

Chibougamou, 
But  if  we  never  fin'  it,  w'at's  de  use  dat  place  to 

me? 
Tak'  de  paddle,  for  we're  goin',  an'  mese'f  I'll  steer 

canoe, 

For  I'm  always  firse-class  pilot  on  de  road  to  St. 
Elie. 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Oh!    to  see  me  on  de  mornin',  an'  de  way  I  mak' 

heem  sweat, 
You  can  see  de  water  droppin'  all  aroun'  hees 

neck  an'  face; 
"Now,  Chibougamou,"  I  tall  heem,  "hurry  up,  an' 

mebbe  yet 

You'll  have  a  chance  again  to  try  it  w'en  you 
leave  me  on  ma  place." 

So  we  have  a  beeg  procession,  w'en  we  pass  on  St. 

Elie, 
All  de  parish  comin',  lookin'  for  de  gole  an*  silver 

too, 
But  Louise,  she  cry  so  moche  dere,  jus'  becos  she's 

seein'  me, 

She  forgot  about  de  diamon'  on  dat  ole  Chibou- 
gamou. 

Affer  all  is  gone  an'  finish,  an'  you  mak'  a   fool 

you'se'f, 
An'  de  worl'  is  go  agen  you,  w'at's  de  medicine 

is  cure 
Lak   de   love  of  hones'  woman   w'en   she  geev   it 

all  herse'f? 

So  Louise  an'  me  is  happy,  no  matter  if  we're 
poor. 

So  de  diamon'  may  be  plaintee,  lak  de  gravel  walk 

you  see 

W'en  you're  comin'  near  de  house  of  ole  Tele- 
sphore  Beailieu ; 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


179 


But  me,  I  got  a  diamon'  on  ma  home  on  St.  Elie 
Can  beat  de  pile  is  lyin'  on  dat  place  Chibou- 
gamou. 


Burglar  Bill.* 

F.  ANSTEY. 
Style:    The  "Sympathetic  Artless" 

THE  writer  would  not  be  acting  fairly  by  the 
young  reciter  if,  in  recommending  the  following 
poem  as  a  subject  for  earnest  study,  he  did  not 
caution  him — or  her — not  to  be  betrayed  by  the 
apparent  simplicity  of  this  exercise  into  the  grave 
error  of  understanding  its  real  difficulty. 

It  is  true  that  it  is  an  illustration  of  pathos  of 
an  elementary  order  (we  shall  reach  the  advanced 
kind  at  a  later  stage),  but,  for  all  that,  this  piece 
bristles  with  as  many  points  as  a  porcupine,  and 
consequently  requires  the  most  cautious  and  careful 
handling. 

Upon  the  whole,  it  is  perhaps  better  suited  to 
students  of  the  softer  sex. 

Announce  the  title  with  a  suggestion  of  shy  inno- 
cence— in  this  way : 

BURGLAR  (now  open  both  eyes  very  wide)  BILL. 
(Then  go  on  in  a  hushed  voice,  and  with  an  air  of 
wonder  at  the  world's  iniquity.) 

*  All  the  directions  given  by  the  author  should  be  re- 
peated to  the  audience. 


l8o  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Through  a  window  in  the  attic 

Brawny  Burglar  Bill  has  crept, 
Seeking  stealthily  a  chamber 

Where  the  jewelry  is  kept. 

(Pronounce  either  "jewelry"  or  "joolery," 
according  to  taste.) 

He  is  furnished  with  a  "jemmy," 

Centre-bit,  and  carpet  bag, 
For  the  latter  "comes  in  handy," 

So  he  says,  "to  stow  the  swag." 

("Jemmy,"  "centre-bit,"  "carpet-bag,"  are  im- 
portant words — put  good  coloring  into  them.) 

Here,  upon  the  second  landing, 

He,  secure,  may  work  his  will; 
Down  below's  a  dinner-party, 

Up  above — the  house  is  still. 

(Here  start  and  extend  first  finger,  remembering 
to  make  it  waggle  slightly,  as  from  fear.) 

Suddenly — in  spellbound  horror, 

All  his  satisfaction  ends — 
For   a   little    white-robed   figure 

By  the  banister  descends! 

(This  last  line  requires  care  in  delivery,  or  it  may 
be  imagined  that  the  little  figure  is  sliding  DOWN 
the  banisters,  which  would  simply  ruin  the  effect. 
Note  the  bold  but  classic  use  of  the  singular  in 
"banister,"  which  is  more  pleasing  to  a  nice  ear 
than  the  plural.) 

Bill  has  reached  for  his  revolver, 
(Business  here  with  your  fan.) 
Yet — he  hesitates  to  fire. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  jgi 

Child  is  it   (in  a  dread  whisper)   or — apparition, 
That  provokes  him  to  perspire  ? 

Can  it  be  his  guardian  angel, 

Sent  to  stay  his  hand  from  crime? 

(In  a  tone  of  awe.) 

He  could  wish  she  had  selected 
Some  more  seasonable  time! 

(Touch  of  peevish  discontent  here.) 

"Go  away!"  he  whispers  hoarsely, 

"Burglars  hev'  their  bread  to  earn ; 
I  don't  need  no  Gordian  angel 

Givin'  me  sech  a  turn!" 

(Shudder  here,  and  retreat,  shielding  eyes  with 
hand.) 

(Now  change  your  manner  to  a  naive  surprise; 
this,  in  spite  of  anything  we  may  have  said  pre- 
viously, is  in  this  particular  instance  NOT  best  indi- 
cated by  a  shrill  falsetto.) 

But  the  blue  eyes  open  wider, 
Ruby  lips  reveal  their  pearl; 

(This  must  not  be  mistaken  to  refer  to  the 
burglar.) 

"I  is  not  a  Garden  anzel, 
Only — dust  a  }'ickle  dirl ! 

(Be  particularly  artless  here  and  through  the 
next  stanza.) 

"On  the  thtairs  to  thit  I'm  doin', 

Till  the  tarts  and  dellies  turn ; 
Partinthon    (our  butler)    alwayth 

Thaves  for  Baby  Bella  thome ! 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"Poor  man,  'oo  is  yookin'  'ungwy — 

Leave  'oo  burgling  fings  up  dere; 
Turn  vis   me  and   share  the   sweeties, 

Thittin'  on  the  bottom  thtair !" 

(In  rendering  the  above  the  young  reciter  should 
strive  to  be  idiomatic  without  ever  becoming  idiotic 
— which  is  not  so  easy  as  might  be  imagined.) 

"Reely,  Miss,  you  must  excoose  me," 
Says  the  burglar  with  a  jerk; 

(Indicate  embarrassment  here  by  smoothing 
down  the  folds  of  your  gown,  and  swaying  awk- 
wardly. ) 

"Dooty  calls,  and  time  is  pressing; 
I  must  set  about  my  work!" 

(This  with  a  gruff  conscientiousness.) 

(Now  assume  your  wide-eyed  innocence  again.) 

"Is  'oo  work  to  break  in  houses? 

Nana  told  me  so,  I'm  sure ! 
Will  'oo  if  'oo  can  manage 

To  bweak  in  my  doll's  house  door? 

"I  tan  never  det  it  undone, 

So  my  dollies  tan't  det  out; 
They  don't  yike  the  fwont  to  open 

Every  time  they'd  walk  about ! 

"Twy,   and — if   'oo   does   it   nithely — 
When   I'm  thent  upthtairs  to  thleep, 

(Don't  overdo  the  lisp.) 

1  will  bwing  'oo  up  thome  doodies, 
Oo  shall  have  them  all — to  keep !" 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAK  INC.  jg 

(Pause  here;  then,  with  intense  feeling  and  sym 
pathy.) 

Off  the  little  "angel"  flutters; 
(Delicate  stress  on  "angel.") 

But  the  burglar  wipes  his  brow. 
He  is  wholly  unaccustomed 
To  a  kindly  greeting  now! 

(Tremble  in  voice  here.) 

Never  with  a  smile  of  welcome 
Has  he  seen  his  entrance  met ! 
Nobody — except  the  policeman 

(Bitterly.) 

Ever  wanted  him  as  yet! 

Many  a  stately  home  he's  entered, 

But,  with  unobtrusive  tact, 
He  has  ne'er,  in  paying  visits, 

Called  attention  to  the  fact 

Gain,  he  counts  it,  on  departing, 
Should  he  have  avoided  strife. 
(In  tone  of  passionate  lament.) 
Ah,  my  brothers,  but  the  burglar's 
Is  a  sad,  a  lonely  life! 

All  forgotten  now  the  jewels, 

Once  the  purpose  of  his  "job"; 
Down  he  sinks  upon  the  door-mat, 

With  a  deep  and  choking  sob. 

Then,  the  infant's  plea  recalling, 

Seeks  the   nursery   above; 
Looking  for  the  Liliputian 

Crib  he  is  to  crack — for  love! 

(It  is  more  usually  done  for  MONEY.) 


1 84  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

In  the  corner  stands  the  doll's  house, 
Gaily  painted  green  and  red ; 

(Coloring  again  here.) 

And  its  door  declines  to  open, 
Even  as  the  child  has  said! 

Forth  comes  centre-bit  and  jemmy: 
(Briskly.) 

All  his  implements  are  plied; 
(  Enthusiastically. ) 

Never  has  he  burgled  better; 
As  he  feels,  with  honest  pride. 

Deftly  is  the  task  accomplished, 

For  the  door  will  open  well ; 
When — a  childish   voice   behind   him 

Breaks  the  silence — like  a  bell. 

"Sank  'oo,  Misser  Burglar,  sank  'oo! 

And,  because  'oo's  been  so  nice, 
See  what  1  have  dot — a  tartlet! 

Great  big  gweedies  ate  the  ice ! 

(Resentful  accent  on  "ate.") 

"Papa  says  he  wants  to  see  'oo, 

Partinthon  is  tummin  too — 
Tan't  'oo  wait?" 

(This  with  guileless  surprise — then  change  to  a 
husky  emotion.) 

''Well,  not  this  evenin', 
So,  my  little  dear    (brusquely),  adoo !" 

(You  are  now  to  produce  your  greatest  effect ; 
the  audience  should  be  made  to  SEE  the  poor,  hunted 
victim  of  social  prejudice  escaping,  consoled  in  the 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  185 

very  act  of  flight  by  memories  of  this  last  adven- 
ture— the  one  bright  and  cheering  episode,  possibly, 
in  his  entire  professional  career.) 
Fast  he  speeds  across  the  housetops! 

(Rapid  delivery  for  this.) 

(Very  gently.) 

But  his  bosom  throbs  with  bliss, 
For  upon  his  rough  lips  linger 
Traces  of  a  baby's  kiss. 

(Most  delicate  treatment  will  be  necessary  in  the 
last  couplet — or  the  audience  may  understand  it  in 
a  painfully  literal  sense.) 

***** 

(You  have  nothing  before  you  now  but  the  finale. 
Make  the  contrast  as  marked  as  possible.) 

Dreamily  on  downy  pillow 
(Soft  musical  intonation  for  this.) 

Baby  Bella  murmurs  sweet: 
(Smile  here  with  sleepy  tenderness.) 

"Burglar — turn  adain,  and  thee  me, 
1  will  dive  'oo  cakes  to  eat !" 

(That  is  one  side  of  the  medal — now  for  the 
other.) 

(Harsh  but  emotional.) 

In  a  garret,  worn  and  weary, 

Burglar  Bill  has  sunk  to  rest, 
Clasping  tenderly  a  damson 

Tartlet  to  his  burly  breast. 


l$6  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

(Dwell  lovingly  upon  the  word  "tartlet" — which 
you  should  press  home  upon  every  one  of  your 
hearers,  remembering  to  fold  your  hands  lightly 
over  your  breast  as  you  conclude.) 


Two  'Mericana  Men. 
T.  A.  DALY. 

From  "Carmina."  Copyright,  1909,  by  John  Lane  Com- 
pany. Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  the  author  and 
of  the  publishers. 

BEEG  Irish  cop  dat  walk  hees  beat 

By  dees  peanutta  stan', 
First  two,  t'ree  week  w'en  we  are  meet 

Ees  call  me  "Dagoman." 
An'  w'en  he  see  how  mad  I  gat, 

Wheech  eesa  pleass  heem,  too, 
Wan  day  he  say:    "Wat's  matter  dat, 

Ain't  'Dago'  name  for  you  ? 
Dat's  'Mericana  name,  you  know,, 

For  man  from  Eeatly ; 
Eet  ees  no  harm  for  call  you  so, 

Den  why  be  mad  weeth  me?" 
First  time  he  talka  deesa  way 

I  am  too  mad  for  speak, 
But  nexta  time  I  justa  say : 

"All  right,  Meester  Meeck!" 

Oh  my,  I  nevva  hear  bay  fore 
Sooch  langwadge  like  he  say; 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  187 

An'  he  don't  look  at  me  no  more 

For  mebbe  two,  free  day. 
But  pretta  soon  agen  I  see 

Dees  beeg  poleecaman 
Dat  com'  an'  growl  an'  say  to  me : 

"Hallo,  Eyetalian! 
Now,  mebbe  so  you  gon'  deny 

Dat  dat's  a  name  for  you." 
I  smila  back  an'  mak'  reply : 

"No,  Irish,  dat'sa  true/1 

"Ha !   Joe,"  he  cry,  "you  theenk  dat  we 

Should  call  you  'Merican?" 
"Dat's  gooda  'nough,"  I  say,  "for  me, 

Eef  dat's  w'at  you  are,  Dan." 
So  now  all  times  we  speaka  so 

Lika  gooda  'Merican: 
He  say  to  me,  "Good-morna,  Joe," 

I  say,  "Good-morna,  Dan." 


Ol'  Joshway  an'  de  Sun. 

AN  UNCLE  REMUS  RHYME. 
JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS. 

From  the  Home  Magazine.  Copyright,  1908,  by  Sunny 
South  Publishing  Company.  This  was  the  last  rhyme 
written  by  Uncle  Remus. 

OL'  Joshway  stood  in  front  er  his  tent, 
An'  sicc'd  his  soldiers  on, 


1 88  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

But  when  he  turned  fer  ter  look  aroun', 

De  clay  wuz  nearly  gone. 
He  rubbed  his  beard,  he  scratched  his  head, 

An'  kicked  his  heel  in  de  groun'; 
Kaze  he  wanter  finish  de  battle-job 

Befo'  de  Sun  went  down. 

He  look  ter  de  East  an'  he  look  ter  de  West, 

An'  he  wave  his  han'  on  high, 
"King  Sun,"  sezee,  "I  want  you  ter  see 

Me  smite  um  hip  an'  thigh ! 
Come  down  ter  camp  an'  rest  you'se'f 

A  little  while  wid  me, 
I'll  git  you  a  fan  an'  big  wide  cheer 

An'  set  it  whar  you  kin  see." 

Dey  wuz  lots  mo'  talk,  but  de  Sun  come  down 

An'  tuck  a  little  ease, 
An'  when  he  got  top  awful  hot, 

He  called  up  ol'  Brer  Breeze ! 
"My  time  is  short,"  sez  de  Sun,  sezee, 

"An'  you  better  do  yo'  do, 
Kaze  I'm  feelin'  like  I  wanter  see 

Dis  mortual  scuffle  throo !" 

Well,  dey  fit  an'  fit  an'  fowt  an'  fowl 
Right  dar  in  de  light  er  de  Sun, 

But  Joshway  frailed  um  out  an'  soon 
He  had  um  on  de  run. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

King  Sun,  he  say,  "I'm  over  due 
'Cross  dar  whar  de  night's  still  black; 

De  folks  will  wake  'fo'  de  chickens  crow 
An'  put  der  big  clocks  back." 

Ol'  Joshway  thanked  him  mighty  polite, 

An'  ax  him  fer  ter  come  ag'in ; 
King  Sun,  he  say,  "I  speck  dat  I 

Will  be  whar  I've  allers  been." 
Den  he  mosied  off,  kaze  he  ain't  got  time 

Fer  ter  set  an'  talk  an'  stay; 
He  hatter  go  off  whar  de  night  still  dark 

An'  start  ter  breakin'  day. 

Well,  time  run  on  an'  people  'spute 

'Bout  Joshway  an'  de  Sun, 
Some  say  dis  an'  some  say  dat, 

An'  'splain  why  Joshway  won ; 
Sometimes  when  he  wuz  settin'  'roun' 

Whar  he  couldn't  he'p  but  hear, 
He'd  say,  "Go  in  de  settin'-room  an'  see 

How  he  scorched  my  big  armcheer !" 


189 


Women  Gambling. 

"MR.  DOOLEY." 
An  extract  from  an  article  in  the  Indies'  Home  Journal. 

"WHAT'S  this    some    preacher    has    been    sayin' 
about  women  gamblin'  ?"  asked  Mr.  Hennessy. 
"Niver  mind  what  he  says,"  replied  Mr.  Dooley. 


190 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


"I  make  it  a  rule  iv  me  life  niver  to  r-reacl  what  a 
preacher  says.  If  he  says  what  he  ought  to  say  it 
ain't  worth  rayportin'  in  a  newspaper,  an'  if  it's 
rayported  in  th'  papers  he's  said  what,  bein'  a 
preacher,  he  hadn't  ought  to  say. 

"Now  th'  preachers  that  ye  r-read  about  have  to 
talk  about  something.  Their  subjicts  gives  out 
afther  a  while.  What'll  he  do?  Th'  pa-apers  ar-re 
waitin'  f  r  him.  A  column  iv  space  in  th'  'Daily 
Whoop'  yawns  f'r  his  uttherances.  What'll  he  give 
thim  ?  It  must  be  something  sthrong  an'  something 
sad.  Good  news  is  no  news.  What  shall  it  be? 
What'll  he  hit?  A-ha,  woman!  There's  th'  subjict 
always.  Whin  in  doubt  wallop  the  ladies.  Whin 
sad  be  sad  about  th'  fair  sect.  It's  always  a  fr-resh 
topic.  Ivry  wan'll  r-read  it.  Th'  weakness,  th' 
folly,  th'  blindness,  th'  idleness,  th'  ambition  iv 
woman !  How  much  betther  our  mothers  were  than 
our  daughters  will  be!  How  much  betther  th' 
wurruld  was  befure  we  were  bor-rn  into  it!  Ah, 
thim  happy  days  whin  th'  scipter  iv  womanhood 
was  a  rollin'-pin  an'  whin  she  set  all  day  sewin' 
oilcloth  on  papah's  pants  instead  iv  eatin'  car'mels 
out  iv  a  blue  box  an'  kickin'  a  pianola  till  it 
groaned. 

"  'Women  to-day  ain't  what  they  were  a  hundred 
years  ago/  he  says.  If  ye  don't  believe  it  r-read  th' 
tombstones.  Thin  they  were  sogacyous,  ca'm,  pru- 
dent, brave,  thoughtful,  able,  sthrong,  thruthful, 
conscientious,  but  withal,  handsome,  atthractive, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  IOyI 

graceful,  amusin',  sprightly,  endearin',  buxom, 
spiritchool  an'  good  hands  at  th'  pie  tin.  They  were 
a  combination  of  Dan'  Webster,  Lord  Bacon,  Addy- 
line  Patti,  Theodore  Rosenfelt  an'  th'  Gool'-Dust 
Twins. 

"In  th'  matther  iv  gamblin',  things  has  got  so 
bad  that  I  hardly  know  what  to  do  about  thim 
except  talk.  I  think  all  men  will  agree  with  me 
that  women  shud  niver  gamble.  It's  too  amusin'. 
They'se  no  amusemint  that  gintlemen  can  ricom- 
mind  to  a  lady  beyond  scrubbin'.  In  th'  nex'  place 
they  can't  afoord  it.  Whin  a  woman  gambles 
she  desthroys  th'  sanctity  iv  th'  home  an' 
inflicts  a  seeryous  blow  at  th'  marredge  relation. 
Manny  a  man  has  not  been  able  to  get  all  th'  good 
they  was  out  iv  four  jacks  because  his  wife  had 
spint  th'  afthernoon  at  th'  bridge  table.  It's  gettin' 
to  be  a  gr-reat  scandal.  Ivrywhere  in  this  broad 
land,  they  tell  me,  if  ye  penethrate  th'  homes  iv  th' 
rich  ye '11  find  four  women  glarin'  at  each  other  an' 
ladin'  out  iv  th'  wrong  hand.  At  home  th'  baby 
falls  downstairs,  th'  hired  girl  sets  fire  to  th'  house, 
dust  accoomylates  on  th'  pianny.  Th'  mother  iv  th' 
fam'ly  is  undisturbed.  A  messenger  comes  in  an' 
cries,  'Ma'am,  th'  baby  has  broke  its  neck.'  'What's 
thrumps?'  says  th'  hardened  gamblin'  mother. 
Downtown  th'  overwurruked  husband  is  thinkin' 
that  soon  he  will  be  home  to  be  greeted  be  th'  wife 
iv  his  bosom  with  a  lovin'  cry  iv,  'F'r  pity's  sake, 
what  kept  ye?  Why  didn't  ye  stay  away  th'  r-rest 


192 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


of  th*  night?'  Alas,  it  will  not  be  so.  Whin  he 
arrives  th'  fire  will  be  dark  in  th'  hearth  an'  the  dog 
will  howl  through  a  deserted  house.  As  th'  hour  iv 
midnight  sthrikes  he  will  hear  fumblin'  at  th'  latch- 
key, an'  a  pale  an'  haggard  woman  will  stagger  into 
th'  room,  throw  hersilf  in  a  chair  an'  bury  her  face 
in  her  hands.  'We  ar-re  rooned,'  she  groans.  'What 
has  happened?'  says  he.  'At  first/  she  says,  'for- 
tune smiled  on  me,'  she  says.  'It  seemed  that  I  cud 
not  lose,'  she  says.  'Hand  afther  hand  yielded 
enormous  profits,  an'  wealth  piled  up  befure  me  till 
I  had  visions  iv  a  palace  on  Mitchigan  Avnoo. 
But/  she  says,  'th'  fickle  dame  on'y  smiled  to  lure 
me  to  me  roon/  she  says.  'Th'  turn  came  an'  ill 
luck  pursooed  me  to  th'  end.  I  cud  no  longer  see 
my  neighbor's  hand.  Ivry  time  I  renigged  I  was 
caught  at  it.  Th'  fates  were  again  me,  but  I  played 
on  an'  on,  hopin'  that  wanst  again  me  luck  wud 
turn.  Alas,  it  was  not  to  be!  At  half-past  iliven 
I  arose  fr'm  th'  cursed  table  a  broken  an'  unhappy 
woman/  she  says.  '  How  much  is  it,  Angelibime?' 
says  her  husband,  bendin'  over  her.  'Perhaps  I  can 
scrape  it  together  an'  we  will  go  to  some  place  where 
we  ar-re  not  known  an'  there  begin  life  over  again/ 
he  says.  'It  is  no  use/  says  she.  'Th'  loss  is  too 
gr-reat.'  'Don't  say  so/  says  he.  'I  am  still  young 
an'  sthrong.  How  much  is  it?'  'Thirty-sivin  cints/ 
she  cries,  an'  falls  faintin'  to  th'  flure. 

"It's  a  turr'ble  evil,  an'  I  don't  see  what's  to  come 
iv  it.    Perhaps  nawthin'.    Gamblin'  is  wan  iv  three 


FOR  READING  AND   SPEAKING. 


193 


larned  profissions,  th'  other  two  bein'  pollytics  an' 
safe-blowin'.  In  order  to  be  a  good  card-player  ye 
mus'  be  able  to  dint  th'  table  with  ye're  fist  whin 
ye  lade  thrumps.  A  lady  can't  do  that,  an'  it  bars 
her  out.  But  she'll  go  on  playin'  as  long  as  there's 
a  sthove  handy  to  throw  th'  pack  in  whin  her  luck 
is  bad." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Hennessy,  "gamblin'  is  a 
turrble  curse.  I  vvanst  lost  two  dollars  on  a  wheel 
iv  fortune." 

"It's  a  gr-reat  curse,"  said  Mr.  Dooley,  "an'  I 
hope  it  ain't  increasin'  among  women.  But  whin 
I  r-read  in  a  sermon  that  th'  wurruld  is  goin'  to 
pot,  that  th'  foundations  iv  governmint  is  threatened, 
that  th'  whole  fabric  iv  civilized  s'ciety  is  in  danger, 
that  humanity  is  on  th'  down  grade,  an'  morality 
is  blinkin',  that  men  ar-re  becomin'  dhrunkards  an' 
women  gamblers,  an'  that  th'  future  iv  th'  race  is 
destruction,  I  can  always  console  mesilf  with  wan 
thought." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Mr.  Hennessy. 

"It  isn't  so,"  said  Mr.  Dooley. 


"This  Fever  Called  Living." 
WALLACE  IRWIN. 

From   "Random    Rhymes   and    Odd   Numbers."     Copy- 
right, 1906,  by  the  Macmillan  Company. 

"Tins  fever  called  living,"  said  Poe,  in  a  vein 
Descriptive  of  life's  ever-hastening  pain. 


194 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


The  phrase,  though  poetic,  small  knowledge  displays 
Of  the  symptoms  that  indicate  life  nowadays — 
So  lend  me  your  ears  while  I  tell,  if  you  please, 
The  way  that  our  citizens  catch  the  disease. 

In  old  Philadelphia,  solid  and  sleek, 

Where  Sabbath  prevails  seven  days  in  the  week, 

Where    nothing    is    heard    but    the  snores  of  the 

"copper," 

And  clocks  dare  not  run    (because   running's  im- 
proper), 

Where  citizens  yawn  while  the  trolley-cars  creep, 
Life  isn't  a. Fever — it's  more  like  a  Sleep. 

In  Boston,  where  only  the  chosen  may  speak, 
Where   the   bartender   seasons   your   cocktail   with 

Greek, 
Where  the  maid   that  you   woo   sits   Minerva-like 

frowning 
And    crushes    your    hopes    with    quotations    from 

Browning, 

Where  the  gateway  of  Heaven  is  called  Beacon  Hill, 
Life  isn't  a  Fever — it's  more  like  a  Chill. 

In  dizzy  New  York,  money-mad  with  the  dicker 
Of  getting-rich-quick  and  of  getting-poor-quicker, 
Where  sky-scrapers,  stilted  high  over  the  town, 
Are  built  in  a  day — and  the  next  are  torn  down, — 
Where  crowds  meet  and  struggle  like  floods  through 

a  chasm, 
Life  isn't  a  Fever — it's  more  like  a  Spasm. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


195 


Artie's  Proposal. 

GEORGE  ADE. 

From  "Artie."  Copyright,  1895.  Published  by  Herbert 
S.  Stone  &  Co.,  Chicago. 

THE  two  bicycles  were  leaned  against  the  stone 
uplift,  and  the  lamps  threw  oblong  splotches  of  light 
on  the  gravel.  Artie  and  Mame  sat  on  the  lake 
shore  in  Lincoln  Park,  and  Artie  was  intent  on  the 
spectacle  of  water  and  moonshine. 

"The  guy  that  could  put  all  that  into  a  picture'd 
be  a  bird,  eh,  Mame  ?" 

"It's  perfectly  lovely." 

"That's  what  it  is,  all  right.  They  don't  grow 
many  like  that." 

"I  could  stay  out  here  all  night  and  just  look  at 
the  lake." 

"Could  you?  Well,  I  think  about  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning  I'd  be  ready  to  let  go.  It  is  a  peach  of 
a  night,  though.  I'll  say  that." 

"Sing  something,  Artie." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do — drive  the  moon 
in?  How  did  you  ever  come  to  think  I  was  a 
singer?  That's  two  or  three  times  you've  sprung 
that  on  me.  Somebody  must  'a'  been  stringin'  you." 

"Why,  the  night  we  walked  home  from  Turner 
Hall  you  sang  something  awfully  pretty.  What  was 
it?" 

"Well,  let  it  go  at  that.  Any  singin'  I  ever  done 
was  a  horrible  bluff,  I'll  tell  you  those." 

"Oh,  you  contrary  thing!  You  can  sing  if  you 
try  to." 


196  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"I  take  no  chances,  Mame.  If  I'd  ever  spring 
one  of  them  bum  notes  on  you,  you'd  give  me  the 
horse  laugh,  and  then  there'd  be  trouble." 

Mamie  laughed  and  said:  "What  a  boy  you  are! 
You  never  do  anything  I  want  you  to." 

"Come  off!  I'll  tell  you  right  now  that  when  I 
kick  on  singin'  I'm  doin'  you  the  greatest  favor  in 
the  world.  You  never  heard  me  sing.  I  guess 
you're  a  little  mixed  in  your  dates.  It  must  have 
been  somebody  else  you  had  on  your  staff  that 
night." 

"Why,  Artie  Blanchard !    You  mean  thing!" 

"Hello!    Did  I  land  on  you  that  time?" 

"I  think  it  was  awfully  mean  of  you  to  say  that. 
I  don't  ever  ask  you  if  you've  been  running  around 
with  some  other  girl." 

"Why  don't  you?  I'd  tell  you  there's  three  or 
four  others  that  kind  o'  like  my  style." 

"They  must  be  hard  up." 

"Is  that  so?  Maybe  I  ain't  so  many,  but  I'm  a 
purty  good  thing,  at  that.  I'm  fresh  every  hour. 
No  family  ought  to  be  without  me.  When  you  lose 
me  you  lose  a  puddin',  and  don't  you  overlook  it." 

In  answer,  Mamie  picked  up  some  of  the  small 
pebbles  and  threw  them  at  him.  He  held  his  cap 
over  his  face  and  laughingly  begged  her  to  stop. 

"Gee,  you  know  you've  got  me  right,  don't  you? 
And  I  guess  you  have,  too.  That  ain't  no  lie.  Say, 
Mame,  what  do  you  think?  Miller  was  roastin'  me 
the  other  day.  He  said  I  was  slow." 

"Slow— how?" 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  iyy 

"About  doin'  the  nervy  thing — comin'  out  and 
sayin'  to  you,  'Here,  let's  fix  it  up/  ' 

"Fix  what  up?" 

"Oh,  you  don't  know,  do  you  ?  You  ain't  got  no 
notion  at  all  of  what  I'm  gettin'  at,  have  you? 
That's  too  bad  about  you." 

Mamie  began  to  laugh,  and  then  she  checked  her- 
self when  she  saw  Artie  was  frowning. 

"Of  course;   I  suppose  you  mean — that  we " 

"All  I  mean  is,  what's  the  matter  o'  gettin'  it  set- 
tled that  it's  goin'  to  be  a  case  o'  marry?" 

Mamie  was  smiling  quietly  and  turning  her  hat 
over  and  over. 

"I  guess  that  didn't  scare  you  so  much  after  all," 
said  Artie,  who  felt  at  that  moment  as  if  his  whole 
existence  had  stepped  out  from  under  a  burden. 

"No,"  as  she  continued  to  fuss  with  the  hat. 
"Scare  me?" 

"How  about  it  bein'  up  to  you  ?" 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  I  guess."  (An  attempt  to  be 
careless.) 

"This  is  one  of  them  cases  where  all  guessin's 
barred." 

"Well,  you  might  know  it's  all  right." 

"It's  a  go,  then.  I'll  tell  you,  Mame,  it  seemed 
to  me  we  ought  to  have  it  through  with.  I  didn't 
want  you  to  keep  guessin'  whether  I  wanted  to 
stick.  Don't  you  think  it  \vas  the  wise  move — huh  ?" 

"It's  all  right— yes." 

"I  was  goin'  to  spring  it  on  you  sooner,  but  I  ain't 
never  got  the  nerve  to  talk  much  about  things  like 


198 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


that.     It  ain't  like  askin'  a  girl  to  go  to  a  show,  is  it  ?" 

"Not  exactly" — both  laughed  in  a  relieved  way. 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  put  your  mother 
on  to  it?" 

"I  don't  know,  would  you?" 

"Sure.    I  guess  she  won't  make  no  holler." 

Mamie  laughed.     "That's  a  good  one  on  you." 

"What  is?" 

"She  wanted  to  know  the  other  day  if  you'd  asked 
me  yet." 

"Who?  The  old  girl?  Well,  what  do  you  think 
of  that?  Everybody's  on  to  us,  Mame." 

"I  don't  care." 

"Care!     They  can  bill  the  town  with  it  if  they 


All's  Well  That  Ends  Well. 

T.  A.  DALY. 

From  "Carmina."  Copyright,  1909,  by  John  Lane  Com- 
pany. Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author  and  of  the 
publishers. 

I  AM  so  glad  as  I  can  be; 

I  seeng,  I  dance,  Signer! 
Ah !  sooch  a  lucky  man  like  me 

You  nevva  see  bayfore! 
Eet  ees  so  like  w'en  sky  ees  gray, 

Den — queeck ! — da  sun  bust  through 
An'  drivin'  all  da  cloud  away — 

I  tall  eet  all  to  you. 
My  wife  an'  me  we  no  can  gat 

To  mak'  our  minds  da  same, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

Wen  leetla  boy  ees  com',  for  w'at 

We  gona  call  hees  name. 
My  Rosa,  dat's  my  wife,  she  say 

She  gotta  besta  right 
For  call  da  keed  her  owna  way, 

An'  so,  my  frand,  we  fight. 
She  say  she  want  her  fadder's  name, 

"Giovanni,"  but,  you  see, 
I  want  "Giacobbe"  jus'  da  same, 

Wheech  ees  da  name  for  me. 
Wai,  den  dees  theeng  excite  us  so 

An'  mak'  so  bigga   fuss, 
Ees  com'  my  reecha  Oncla  Joe 

For  feexin'  theengs  for  us. 
But  w'en  we  find  how  hard  eet  seem 

For  f eex,  he  tall  us :  "Wai, 
I  theenk  ees  best  you  calla  heem 

'Guiseppe'  for  mysal' !" 
Dees  mak'  da  case  so  bothersom', 

My  brain  ees  eena  whirl ; 
I  almost  weesh  w'en  keed  ees  com' 

He  gona  be  a  girl. 
Eh?     No,  he  was  no  borna  w'en 

We  fighta  deesa  way, 
No  baby  eesa  leevin'  den, 

But  see !    ees  com'  to-day, 
Not  only  wan  of  heem,  but  three! 

Eh?    "Treeplets?"    Yes,  Signor. 
Ah!    sooch  a  lucky  man  like  me 

You  nevva  see  bay  fore  ! 


200  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Match-making. 

CAPTAIN  R.  MARSHALL. 

From   "His   Excellency   the   Governor." 

Ethel  (ivho  has  come  down,  and  is  examining 
photograph  which  she  has  taken  from  a  table).  How 
like  him !  And  that's  his  signature,  I  suppose — 
"Charles  Carew."  Perhaps  some  girl  loves  him.  I 
wonder !  I  never  felt  so  interested  in  any  one 
before.  Strange!  for  it's  not  as  if  he  were  a 
brother. 

Enter  CAREW.  He  now  wears  the  evening  dress  of 
a  Governor's  Staff.  As  he  enters,  ETHEL 
conceals  photograph. 

Carew.    Alone,  Miss  Carlton? 

Ethel.  Yes.  (Drops  photograph.  Both  stoop  for 
it  hurriedly,  and  CAREW  secures  it.) 

Carew.    Why,  it's  myself. 

Ethel.  Is  it,  really?  So  it  is!  (Changing  the 
subject.)  Where — where  are  the  others? 

Carew.  Playing  billiards.  Do  you  care  for  the 
game? 

Ethel.    Oh  yes.    I  like  all  games. 

[A  piano  being  played  is  heard  in  the  distance. 

Carczv.    So  do  I.    Who's  that  ? 

Ethel.  Probably  the  Comtesse.  Shall  we  join 
her? 

Carew.  No,  no!  We  should  only  be  disturbing 
her ;  and  besides,  there's  a  game — er — rather  a  good 
one — I  used  to  know,  called  "Match-making."  Do 
you  know  it? 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  2OI 

Ethel.  Match-making?  No,  I've  never  played  at 
that.  But  perhaps  you  can  teach  me. 

Carew.  I'll  try,  with  pleasure.  You  see,  we  each 
take  paper  and  pencil,  and  sit  opposite  each  other. 
There.  Now  we're  supposed  to  be  writing  a  scene 
between  two  lovers  in  a  novel.  I  write  for  him, 
and  you  for  her.  (As  he  speaks  they  sit  at  a  table 
opposite  each  other,  and  CAREW  produces  pencils 
and  paper.) 

Ethel.    I  see. 

Carew.  Well,  now,  I'm  in  love  with  you — with 
her. 

Ethel.  And — and  am  I  in  love  with  you — with 
him? 

Carew.    Yes,  I  think  so.     Oh  yes,  certainly! 

Ethel.    I  suppose  I  ought  to  be. 

Carew.  And  we  toss  for  who  begins.  (Tosses 
coin.)  Head  or  tail? 

Ethel.    Head. 

Carew.  It's  a  tail,  so  I  begin.  You're  quite 
ready  ? 

Ethel.    Yes. 

Carew.  Very  well.  I  write.  "My  own 
Ethel- 

Ethel   (rising).     Captain  Carew! 

Carew  (rises).  That's  her  name  in  the  novel, 
you  know. 

Ethel  (laughing,  and  sitting  again).  Oh!  I  beg 
your  pardon.  You  see,  it's  mine  too. 

Carezv,    It's  a  nice  name.  I  always  liked  it.  How- 


202  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

ever,  I'd  better  go  on.  "My  own  Ethel,  ever  since 
you  landed  on  these  Islands " 

Ethel.    Am  I  on  the  Islands? — I  mean,  is  she? 

Carcw.  Yes,  for  I  can  choose  the  scene  if  I  win 
the  toss.  That's  a  rule  of  the  game. 

Ethel.     I  see.     I  didn't  know. 

Car  civ.  "I  have  loved  you  passionately."  Now 
it's  your  turn.  You  reply  for  her. 

Ethel.     Yes.     It's  rather  difficult. 

Carcw.     Remember,  you  love  him. 

Ethel.  I  remember.  I  think  she  had  better 
reply,  "What  is  your  income  ?" 

Carcw.  Ah!  you  can't  say  that.  It's  against 
the  rules. 

Ethel.  Is  it?  Well,  she  says,  "Why  do  you 
love  me?" 

Carcw.  I  say,  "Because  you  are  beautiful  and 
good." 

Ethel.    No.    He  says  that. 

Carcw.    Yes,  but  I'm  him. 

Ethel.     It's  rather  a  confusing  game. 

Carcw.    Only  at  first. 

Ethel.     What  did  he  say  last? 

Carcw.     "You  are  good  and  beautiful." 

Ethel.  Oh  yes.  And  she  answers,  "I  am  sorry  I 
cannot  truthfully  say  the  same  of  you."  Now  it's 
your  turn. 

Carcw.  He,  undaunted,  remarks,  "Do  you  think 
you  could  ever  care  for  me?" 

Ethel.  And  she,  being  good-natured,  says,  "I 
might  try." 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  203 

Carew.  Ah!  that's  better.  You're  getting  into 
the  game. 

Ethel.  Indeed  I'm  not.  She  only  said  that  to 
gain  time. 

Carcw.  Anyhow,  he  comes  to  her — (rises) — 
clasps  her  hand,  and  that  brings  us  to  the  first 
illustration. 

Ethel.  You  never  told  me  it  was  an  illustrated 
novel. 

Carcw.  Oh  yes !  That's  one  of  the  rules.  We 
don't  draw.  We  do  it  by  a  sort  of  tableau  vivant. 

Ethel.  It's  a  very  embarrassing  game.  There 
are  so  many  rules. 

Carcw.  Now,  before  the  illustration,  we  toss 
again.  If  it's  heads,  he  embraces  her;  if  it's  tails, 
she  embraces  him. 

Ethel.    Then  what's  the  good  of  tossing? 

Carew.     It's  a  rule,  that's  all.     Shall  I  toss? 

Ethel.  One  moment!  (Retires  behind  sofa.) 
Xow  you  may. 

Carcw.    Right.     (Tosses.)     It's  a  tail. 

Ethel  (indignantly).  Well,  I'm  not  going  to. 
There!  It's  a  preposterous  game,  and  I  don't  see 
where  it's  to  end.  I  believe  you  invented  it. 

Carew.  To  be  honest,  Miss  Carlton,  I  did.  I 
wanted  neither  of  us  to  lose,  and  love's  the  only 
game  I  know  of  where  both  players  can  win.  I 
meant  every  word  I  said. 

Ethel.     Captain  Carew ! 

Carew.     It's  true,  Ethel,  I— 

Ethel.  Hush !  There's  some  one  coming.  I — I 


204  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Carew  (eagerly).    Yes? 
Ethel.    I — I — I  may  have  meant  it  too. 
Carciv.    Ah ! 

Ethel.     I'm  not  sure.     If,  when  you  see  me  next, 
I  wear  a  white  rose Hush! 


A  Way  Out  of  It. 

SAMUEL   LOVER. 

"On,  'tis  time  I  should  talk  to  your  mother, 

Sweet  Mary,"  says  I ; 
"Oh,  don't  talk  to  my  mother,"  says  Mary, 

Beginning  to  cry ; 
"For  my  mother  says  men  are  deceivers, 

And  never,  I  know,  will  consent; 
She  says  girls  in  a  hurry  who  marry 

At  leisure  repent." 

"Then  suppose  I  should  talk  to  your  father, 

Sweet  Mary,"  says  I  ; 
"Oh,  don't  talk  to  my  father,"  says  Mary, 

Beginning  to  cry ; 
"For  my  father,  he  loves  me  so  dearly, 

He'll  never  consent  I  should  go — 
If  you  talk  to  my  father,"  says  Mary, 

"He'll  surely  say — no." 

"Then  how  shall  I  get  you,  my  jewel? 

Sweet  Mary,"  says  I ; 
"If  your  father  and  mother's  so  cruel 

Most  surely  I'll  die !" 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  205 

"Oh,  never  say  die,  dear,"  says  Mary, 

"A  way  now  to  save  you  I  see ; 
Since  my  parents  are  both  so  contrary, 

You'd  better  ask — me." 


The  Golden  Arm. 

MARK  TWAIN. 

In  a  magazine  article  Mark  Twain  once  set  forth  his 
ideas  on  how  to  tell  a  story,  and  closed  with  the  following 
story,  which  he  made  most  effective  on  the  Lyceum  plat- 
form. 

ONCE  'pon  a  time  dey  wuz  a  monsus  mean  man, 
en  he  live  'way  out  in  de  prairie  all  'lone  by  hisself, 
'cep'n  he  had  a  wife.  En  bimeby  she  died,  en  he 
tuck  en  toted  her  'way  out  dah  in  de  prairie  en 
buried  her.  Well,  she  had  a  golden  arm — all  solid 
gold,  fum  de  shoulder  down.  He  wuz  pow'ful 
mean — pow'ful;  en  dat  night  he  couldn't  sleep, 
caze  he  want  dat  golden  arm  so  bad. 

When  it  come  midnight  he  couldn't  stan'  it  no 
mo' ;  so  he  git  up,  he  did,  en  tuck  his  lantern  en 
shoved  out  thoo  de  storm  en  dug  her  up  en  got  de 
golden  arm;  en  he  bent  his  head  down  'gin  de 
win',  en  plowed  en  plowed  en  plowed  thoo  de  snow. 
Den  all  on  a  sudden  he  stop  (make  a  considerable 
pause  here,  and  look  startled,  and  take  a  listening 
attitude)  en  say:  "My  Ian',  what's  dat?" 

En  he  listen — en  listen — en  de  win'  say  (set  your 
teeth  together  and  imitate  the  wailing  and  wheezing 
singsong  of  the  wind),  "Bzzz-z-zzz" — en  den,  way 


206  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

back  yonder  whah  de  grave  is,  he  hear  a  voice! — 
he  hear  a  voice  all  mix'  up  in  de  win' — can't  hardly 
tell  'em  'part — "Bzzz-zzz — W-h-o — g-o-t — m-y— 
g-o-l-d-e-n  arm? — zzz — zzz — W-h-o  g-o-t  m-y 
g-o-l-d-e-n  arm?"  (You  must  begin  to  shiver 
violently  now.) 

En  he  begin  to  shiver  en  shake,  en  say,  "Oh,  my ! 
Oh,  my  Ian' !"  en  de  win'  blow  de  lantern  out,  en 
de  snow  en  sleet  blow  in  his  face  en  mos'  choke 
him,  en  he  start  a-plowin'  knee-deep  toward  home 
mos'  dead,  he  so  sk'yerd — en  pooty  soon  he  hear 
de  voice  agin,  en  (pause)  it  'us  comin'  after 
him !  "Bzzz — zzz — zzz  — W-h-o  — g-o-t  — m-y  — 
g-o-l-d-e-n — arm  ?" 

When  he  git  to  de  pasture  he  hear  it  agin— 
closter  now,  en  a-comiV/ — a-comin'  back  dah  in  de 
dark  en  de  storm — (repeat  the  wind  and  the  voice). 
When  he  git  to  de  house  he  rush  upstairs  en  jump 
in  de  bed  en  kiver  up,  head  and  years,  en  lay  dah 
shiverin'  en  shakin' — en  den  'way  out  dah  he  hear  it 
agin! — en  a-cowtV/  En  bimeby  he  hear  (pause 
— awed,  listening  attitude) — pat — pat — pat — hit's 
a-comiri  upstairs!  Den  he  hear  de  latch,  en  he 
know  it's  in  de  room! 

Den  pooty  soon  he  know  it's  a-standin'  by  de 
bed!  (Pause.)  Den — he  know  it's  &-bendin'  down 
oi'cr  him — en  he  cain't  skasely  git  his  breath !  Den 
— den — he  seem  to  feel  someth'n  c-o-l-d,  right  down 
'most  agin  his  head!  (Pause.) 

Den  de  voice  say,  right  at  his  year — "W-h-o — 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


207 


g-ot— m-y — g-o-l-d-e-n  arm?"  (You  must  wail  it 
out  very  plaintively  and  accusingly;  then  you  stare 
steadily  and  impressively  into  the  face  of  the 
farthest-gone  auditor, — a  girl,  preferably, — and  let 
that  awe-inspiring  pause  begin  to  build  itself  in  the 
deep  hush.  When  it  has  reached  exactly  the  right 
length,  jump  suddenly  at  that  girl  and  yell,  "You've 
got  it!" 

If  you've  got  the  pause  right,  she'll  fetch  a  dear 
little  yelp  and  spring  right  out  of  her  shoes.  But 
you  must  get  the  pause  right;  and  you  will  find  it 
the  most  troublesome  and  aggravating  and  uncer- 
tain thing  you  ever  undertook. 

The  Disagreeable  Man. 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 

IF  you  give  me  your  attention  I  will  tell  you  what  I 
am: 

I'm  a  genuine  philanthropist — all  other  kinds  are 
sham. 

Each  little  fault  of  temper  and  each  social  defect 

In  my  erring  fellow  creatures,  I  endeavor  to  cor- 
rect. 

To  all  their  little  weaknesses  I  open  people's  eyes, 

And  little  plans  to  snub  the  self-sufficient  I  devise; 

I  love  my  fellow  creatures — I  do  all  the  good  I 
can — 

Yet  everybody  says  I'm  such  a  disagreeable  man ! 
And  I  can't  think  why ! 


208  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

To  compliments  inflated  I've  a  withering  reply; 

And  vanity  I  always  do  my  best  to  mortify ; 

A  charitable  action  I  can  skilfully  dissect; 

And  interested  motives  I'm  delighted  to  detect. 

I   know  everybody's   income   and   what  everybody 

earns, 
And   I   carefully  compare   it   with  the  income-tax 

returns ; 

But  to  benefit  humanity  however  much  I  plan, 
Yet  everybody  says  I'm  such  a  disagreeable  man ! 
And  I  can't  think  why! 

I'm  sure  I'm  no  ascetic :  I'm  as  pleasant  as  can  be ; 
You'll  always  find  me  ready  with  a  crushing 

repartee ; 

I've  an  irritating  chuckle;  I've  a  celebrated  sneer; 
I've  an  entertaining  snigger ;  I've  a  fascinating  leer  ; 
To  everybody's  prejudice  I  know  a  thing  or  two; 
I  can  tell  a  woman's  age  in  half  a  minute — and  I 

do— 
But  although  I  try  to  make  myself  as  pleasant  as 

I  can, 

Yet  everybody  says  I'm  such  a  disagreeable  man ! 
And  I  can't  think  why ! 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  209 


In  Pursuit  of  Priscilla. 
EDWARD  SALISBURY  FIELD. 

Copyright  by  Henry  Altemus  Company.  Reprinted  by 
special  permission. 

I. 

"!T  isn't  so  sudden  as  you  think,"  I  said.  "I've 
been  considering  it  for  weeks." 

"As  if  I  didn't  know  that,"  she  replied. 

"Your  surprise  was  admirably  feigned,"  I  com- 
plimented icily. 

"Don't  be  a  goose,  Billy !  I'm  dying  to  know 
what  finally  decided  you  to  propose." 

"Is  it  psychology?"  I  asked  suspiciously. 

"Just  plain  curiosity,"  she  declared. 

"Well,  then,  I'm  simply  crazy  about  you,  Pris- 
cilla." 

"But  you've  been  that  for  years !" 

"And  there  was  Carey  Hamilton,"  I  admitted 
weakly. 

"That's  better,"  she  said.    "What  about  Carey?" 

"As  if  you  didn't  know!" 

"You  mean,  of  course,  that  Carey  has  been  rather 
devoted  lately." 

"Not  rather,  Priscilla — markedly,  confoundedly, 
er — devilishly  devoted  !" 

"What  of  it?"  she  asked  innocently. 

"Look  here,  Priscilla,"  I  protested,  "that  doesn't 
go  down  with  me;  we've  known  each  other  ever 
since  we  were  kids.  I  remember  how  you  used  to 


2io  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

catch  flies  and  pull  their  legs  off.  What  a  horrid 
little  girl  you  were !  And  now  it's  me  that's  the  fly, 
and  it's  my  wings  and  legs  that  you're  despoiling!" 

"You're  a  beast,  Billy !  Besides,  you  should  say 
it's  I  that's  the  fly." 

"You  haven't  changed  a  bit,"  I  sighed. 

"I  wish  I  could  say  as  much  for  you/'  said  Pris- 
cilla.  "Honestly,  Billy,  you  were  a  nice  child,  and 
so  generous.  Yes,  you  were  generous  then,"  she 
admitted. 

"Why  then?"  I  demanded.  "Am  I  not  generous 
now?" 

She  was  silent.    I  repeated  the  question. 

"We'll  compromise,"  she  said  sweetly,  "and  say 
you  are  generous  now  and  then." 

"Do  you  know  how  much  American  Beauties 
cost  a  dozen  ?"  I  asked  pointedly,  with  my  eyes  fixed 
on  a  rose  jar  near  the  window. 

"Anybody  can  be  generous  with  money,"  said 
Priscilla. 

"Now  and  then,"  I  retorted. 

"Carey  Hamilton  has  been  most  considerate." 

"I  never  liked  him." 

"Why Tasked  Priscilla. 

"I  refuse  to  answer." 

"You  choose  to  insinuate,"  she  sneered. 

"I  choose  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  Priscilla 
Crookshanks !" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  Priscilla  Crook- 
shanks,  Billy;  I  don't  like  it." 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  2II 

"I  don't  blame  you.  It  has  a  deformed  sound, 
hasn't  it?" 

"What  has?" 

"Crookshanks,  of  course.  Why  don't  you  cnange 
it,  Priscilla?" 

"Don't  be  tiresome,  Billy." 

"I  won't,  if  you'll  marry  me." 

"If  I  thought  you  wouldn't,  I'd  be  almost  tempted 
to  do  it." 

"Would  you,  really?" 

"Almost.  Do  you  know,  Billy,  I've  often  thought 
you  had  the  making  of  a  man  in  you  ?" 

"That  observation  does  you  great  credit,"  I  said. 
"Thanks  awfully." 

"What  you  really  need,"  she  continued,  "is  a 
wife." 

"The  very  point  I've  been  trying  to  make." 
II. 

"Did  you  ever  do  something,  and  then  regret  it 
ten  minutes  afterward?"  Priscilla  asked,  as  I 
sauntered  into  her  drawing-room  next  afternoon. 

"Perhaps,"  I  answered  guardedly. 

"At  any  rate,  I  haven't  a  ring  to  return,"  she 
added  triumphantly. 

"That's  soon  remedied,"  I  said,  fishing  into  my 
waistcoat  pocket. 

"Oh,  what  a  beauty!"  cried  Priscilla.  "When 
did  you  get  it?" 

"I  was  at  Tiffany's  this  morning  before  the  doors 
were  open.  I'm  glad  you  like  it." 


212  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"I  do  like  it,"  she  replied ;  "and  I'll  tell  every- 
body that  Dad  gave  it  to  me  for  a  birthday  present." 

"But  your  birthday  isn't  till  next  month!  And 
besides,  I  gave  it  to  you." 

"Would  you  have  me  go  around  saying:  'See  the 
ring  Billy  Cartwright  gave  me'  ?" 

"Why  not  ?    We're  engaged." 

"I  haven't  really  decided  yet  whether  I'll  be 
engaged  or  not.  But  I'll  always  keep  the  ring, 
Billy." 

"No  reason  why  you  shouldn't." 

"I'm  so  glad  you're  sensible  about  it ;  some  men 
would  expect  me  to  return  it." 

"Much  good  it  would  do  them.  But  honestly, 
Priscilla,  I  think  you're  treating  me  like  a  dog." 

"I  adore  dogs.  Still,  perhaps  I  haven't  been  very 
nice  about  the  ring.  There !  Do  you  feel  better  ?" 

"Give  me  another,  and  I'll  produce  a  dog-collar 
of  pearls,"  I  promised  rashly. 

"I  might  contract  the  habit,"  said  Priscilla;  "and 
kissing  has  gone  out;  it's  considered  dowdy  now- 
adays." 

"Yours  are  not  dowdy,"  I  said;  "they're I 

can't  think  of  the  right  word." 

"Heavenly?" 

"Exactly.    Thank  you." 

"Don't  thank  me;  it's  Carey  Hamilton  you're 
indebted  to." 

"You  didn't  kiss  Carey!" 

"Of  course  not ;  I  kissed  his  Boston  terrier.    It's 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  213 

the  sweetest  thing!     Will  you  buy  me  one  when 
we're  married,  Billy?" 

"I'll  buy  you  a  hundred  if  you  like.  That  reminds 
me :  I  suppose  I  ought  to  speak  to  your  father." 

"I  don't  see  why." 

"Isn't  it  customary?" 

"Oh  yes,  everybody  asks  Dad;  he's  very  demo- 
cratic, you  know." 

"But  really,  Priscilla,  I  should  speak  to  your 
father — it's  only  right." 

"Well,  you  can't  now,  because  Carey  Hamilton  is 
speaking  to  him,"  said  Priscilla. 

"What  ?"  I  cried.    "This  is  outrageous,  Priscilla !" 

"I  don't  see  why.  It's  time  for  you  to  run  now, 
Billy." 

"I'm  not  going  till  Carey  Hamilton  shows  up," 
I  said. 

"Please  go,  Billy." 

"No,  Ducky." 

"Perhaps  you  will  if  I  tell  you  something." 

"Perhaps.     But  if  you  are  preparing  to  tell  me 
that  Carey  Hamilton  isn't  in  the  house,  you  needn't 
bother,  for  I've  known  it  all  along." 
III. 

"Your  father  is  a  brick,  Priscilla,"  I  said,  as  soon 
as  James  was  out  of  earshot. 

"What  welcome  news!"  said  Priscilla.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  came  to  see  me  this  afternoon  on  purpose 
to  tell  me." 

"Partly  that ;  but  I've  even  better  news  than  that : 


214  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

your  father  thinks  I'll  do  for  a  son-in-law.  I  way- 
laid him  last  night  at  the  club,  and  he  literally  fell 
on  my  neck  when  I  told  him.  If  it  had  been  any- 
body else  I  should  have  thought  he  looked  relieved/' 

"How  perfectly  horrid  of  you,  Billy!" 

"Not  a  bit.     Why  shouldn't  he  look  relieved?" 

"Why  should  he?" 

"You  might  have  wanted  to  marry  some  one  he 
didn't  approve  of." 

"But  he  likes  Carey  Hamilton,"  said  Priscilla. 
"As  for  you,  he  was  nice  to  you  for  my  sake." 

"Did  you  ask  him  to  be?" 

"I  never  ask  Dad  to  do  anything;  I  just  tell  him 
to  do  it.  He's  a  regular  lamb." 

"I'm  not,"  I  warned. 

"Of  course  not,"  she  agreed;  "they  don't  christen 
lambs,  Billy.  But  I  haven't  thanked  you  for  that 
darling  puppy  you  sent  me.  What  shall  I  call  him?" 

"You  might  call  him  Tatters,"  I  said;  "for,  if 
he's  affectionate,  he'll  tear  your  clothes  to  shreds, 
and  if  he  isn't  he'll  tear  them  anyway." 

"That's  encouraging,"  said  Priscilla.  "I  can't  say 
I  like  the  name  of  Tatters,  though.  I  think  Til  call 
him  after  one  of  Chevalier's  songs.  I  adore 
Chevalier." 

"Which  one  will  you  name  him  after?" 

"The  Little  Nipper.  It  sounds  something  like 
Little  Dipper,  and  that's  more  in  keeping  with 
Saturn  and  the  Dog  Star  Kennels.  I  know  I'll  just 
love  Nipper,  Billy." 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  215 

"I'm  sure  you  will.    The  lucky  brute !" 
IV. 

"How  did  you  manage  it,  Billy?"  asked  Priscilla, 
as  we  sank  into  our  chairs  before  Mrs.  Plantagenet 
Brown's  festive  board  that  evening. 

"Mrs.  Planty  is  a  dear,"  I  explained. 

"I  hope  you  didn't  tell  her  we  were  engaged, 
Billy." 

"Perhaps  I  didn't,"  I  returned. 

"Because  we're  not,  you  know,"  she  continued. 

"That's  a  beautiful  ruby  you're  wearing,  Miss 
Crookshanks." 

"Dad  gave  it  to  me  on  my  birthday,"  said  Pris- 
cilla. 

"Which    is    next    month.      Let    me    see,    you'll 

V,p » 

Uv. 

"Twenty-two." 

"I  thought  it  was  twenty-four." 

"It  was  twenty- four,  Billy,  but  it  is  twenty-two." 

"There's  a  vast  difference  between  is  and  was." 

"Only  two  years.     But  that   reminds   me — I've 
got  something  awfully  important  to  tell  you." 
/'Why  didn't  you  tell  me  this  afternoon?" 

"I  couldn't  very  well,"  said  Priscilla,  glancing 
across  the  table  at  Carey  Hamilton,  who  was  doing 
his  best  to  be  nice  to  Miss  Morton.  "The  fact  is, 
Billy,  I  received  a  letter  this  morning  from  Lord 
Grimwood's  sister,  Lady  Maud." 

"Very  interesting,"  I  admitted,  "but  hardly  im- 
portant." 


2i6  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"Just  wait  till  I'm  through,"  warned  Priscilla. 
"Lady  Maud  is  on  her  way  home  from  Japan,  and 
will  arrive  here  to-morrow." 

"We  must  give  her  a  good  time  while  she's  in 
town/'  I  said. 

"She's  sailing  the  next  day,"  continued  Priscilla, 
"and  Sally  has  cabled  that  she  and  Lord  Grimwood 
expect  me  on  the  same  boat." 

"Are  you  going?"  I  demanded  grimly. 

"Of  course  I'm  going.  There,  didn't  I  tell  you 
it  was  important?" 

"This  is  a  nice  time  and  place  to  tell  me,  Pris- 
cilla." 

"Just  what  I  thought.     I  hate  a  scene." 

"Perhaps  your  father  won't  consent." 

"He  has  already  consented — at  least,  I've  told 
him  I'm  going.  Dad's  only  objection,  all  along,  has 
been  my  not  having  a  proper  companion  for  the 
trip.  That's  where  Lady  Maud  steps  in,  you  see." 

"It's  preposterous,  and  it's  unkind." 

"It  is  a  little  sudden.     I'm  sorry  for  you,  Billy." 

"I'm  sorry  for  myself.  But  there's  still  time  for 
us  to  be  married  before  you  go,  Priscilla." 

"Time  enough !  Why,  man,  there's  only  two 
days." 

"It  only  takes  ten  minutes." 

"It  takes  clothes,"  said  Priscilla — "heaps  of 
clothes." 

"I'll  buy  you  all  you  want  in  Paris." 

"But  I'm  going  to  England ;  besides,  it  is  not  to 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

be  thought  of.  I'll  be  back  in  the  fall,  though,  Billy ; 
so  cheer  up/' 

"You'll  bring  back  a  Lord,  or  Earl,  or  something." 

"A  Duke  or  nothing,  Billy;  a  Duke  is  none  too 
good  for  me." 

"None  of  them  are  good  enough.  You're  not 
really  going  to  leave  me  behind,  Priscilla  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  am,  Billy." 

"You  don't  care." 

"Yes,  I  do.    I'm  awfully  fond  of  you,  Billy." 

"Does  Carey  Hamilton  know  you're  going?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"Well,  that's  some  comfort." 

"And  I'm  going  to  leave  Nipper  with  you,  Billy ; 
he'll  remind  you  of  me." 

"May  I  drop  in  to-morrow  afternoon  ?" 

"I'll  be  too  busy  to  see  you,  Billy.  Besides,  I 
want  you  to  call  on  Lady  Maud.  You  might  take 
her  for  a  ride  in  your  automobile,  and  then  you 
could  dine  somewhere,  you  know.  I'm  going  to  run 
in  to  see  her  for  a  minute  in  the  morning,  but  I 
sha'n't  have  time  for  more  than  that." 

"Hang  Maud !  She's  at  the  bottom  of  all  my 
trouble." 

"But  you'll  take  her  for  a  ride,  Billy?" 

"I'm  blest  if  I  will!" 

"She's  Lord  Grimwood's  sister." 

"I  wouldn't  take  her  if  she  were  his  grand- 
mother !" 

"But  she's  expecting  you." 


2i8  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"She  can't  be,  unless You  didn't  tell  her  I 

would,  Priscilla?" 

"I  didn't  tell  her  anything,"  answered  Priscilla; 
"I  wrote  her  you  would,  though.  She'll  expect  you, 
Billy,  and  if  you'll  be  good,  just  this  once,  you  may 
come  to  see  me  to-morrow  evening  at  ten  o'clock — 
only  for  a  minute,  mind." 

"I'll  do  it.    You  always  have  your  way,  Priscilla." 

"You're  a  dear,  but  you  haven't  eaten  a  thing. 
Everybody  is  noticing  it." 

"Nonsense !  Nobody  eats  when  they're  dining 
out — it's  bad  form.  Where  did  you  say  Maudie 
was  stopping?" 

"At  the  Holland  House,  Billy." 

"And  when  does  your  boat  sail?" 

"Friday,  at  eleven  o'clock.  An  unlucky  day,  isn't 
it?" 

"An  unlucky  day  for  me.  Hamburg-American, 
Hoboken  and  Plymouth,  I  suppose?" 

"The  Dcutschland" 

"All  right,  I'll  call  on  Lady  Maud,  take  her  for  a 
ride,  buy  her  the  best  dinner  to  be  had  in  New  York 
and  make  myself  useful  generally.  Will  that  do?" 

"If  I  hadn't  called  you  a  dear  a  moment  ago  I'd 
call  you  one  now,  Billy.  You  ought  to  send  her 
some  roses,  though." 

"I'll  send  her  a  dozen.  Just  the  same,  I  think' 
it's  awfully  shabby  of  you  to  go  to  England  without 
me." 

"Not  another  word.     Talk  to  the  girl  on  your 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

right  now,  or  Mrs.  Brown  will  never  ask  you  to 
dine  again." 

V. 

"There,  that's  a  reward  of  merit,"  said  Priscilla. 
"It's  just  ten  o'clock  and  you're  a  good  boy." 

"  'Twas  worth  a  thousand-mile  journey,"  I 
beamed. 

"And  the  Holland  House  isn't  a  mile  away,"  re- 
plied Priscilla. 

"According  to  that,  I  owe  you  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  kisses,"  I  said.  "I'm  ready  to  pay, 
Priscilla." 

"For  a  mile  at  a  time?"  she  asked. 

"For  a  mile  at  a  time." 

"I'll  accept  payment  for  two  miles  if  you'll  prom- 
ise not  to  be  gloomy,  and  go  home  when  I  tell  you, 
Billy.  This  is  our  last  time  together  and  I  want  it 
to  be  a  pleasant  one." 

"I  will  promise  on  one  condition." 

"A  reasonable  one,  I  hope." 

"Nothing  could  be  more  reasonable.  All  I  ask 
is  that  I  may  call  for  you  in  the  morning  with  my 
new  Limousine  automobile,  and  see  you  safely  to 
the  dock  at  Hoboken." 

"You  haven't  bought  a  new  car,  Billy !" 

"Haven't  I,  though!  It's  a  beauty;  I'll  need  a 
beauty  to  console  me  while  you're  gone,  Priscilla/' 

"So  you  chose  a  gasoline  one." 

"Not  gasoline — steam.  I'm  bound  to  play  with 
fire,  you  see." 


220  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"You  and  Nipper  will  have  glorious  rides 
together,  Billy." 

"Of  course  I  shall  never  take  any  one  but  Nip- 
per." 

"You'd  better  not;   I'll  haunt  you  if  you  do." 

"You'll  haunt  me,  anyway.  But  you  haven't 
consented  to  my  plan,  Priscilla." 

"I  think  it  would  be  lovely,  Billy — I'm  dying  to 
see  your  new  car.  The  trunks  went  this  afternoon, 
and  Agnes  can  take  care  of  herself." 

"I'll  send  Jenkins  over  to  look  out  for  Agnes, 
and  we'll  take  Nipper  with  us." 

"Poor,  dear  Nipper — I  can't  bear  to  part  with 
him !"  wailed  Priscilla.  "But  do  tell  me  about  Lady 
Maud.  How  did  you  get  on  together?" 

"Maudie  is  a  trump.  I  took  her  for  a  ride,  and 
she  loved  it ;  I  treated  her  to  a  dinner  at  Sherry's, 
and  she  loved  it ;  she  loved  you,  she  loved  the  roses 
I  sent  her,  she  love'd  me  and  she  loved  New  York. 
She  loved  Nipper,  when  I  described  him ;  she  almost 
fell  on  my  neck  when  I  told  her  you  and  I  were 
engaged,  and " 

"You  didn't  tell  her  that,  Billy !" 

"You  don't  mind,  really?" 

"Oh,  but  I  do!  Lady  Maud  will  tell  everybody 
I'm  engaged,  and  a  nice  time  I'll  have  in  England! 
What's  the  use  of  going  if  I'm  to  be  placarded: 
'Hands  Off— Engaged'?" 

"It's  not  so  bad  as  that.  Maudie  promised  not 
to  tell." 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  22I 

"It  seems  to  me,  for  a  first  call,  you  made  sur- 
prising headway,  Billy." 

"I  can't  help  being  engaging.  Besides,  Maudie 
Kked  it." 

"Of  course  she  did ;  all  women  like  to  be  confided 
in — I  like  it  myself.  Truly  considerate.  Let's  talk 
about  something  else,  Billy — something  more  cheer- 
ful." 

"Could  you  stand  another  proposal?" 

"I  could  from  you,  Billy.  But  we're  already 
engaged,  you  know." 

"And  Dad  didn't  give  you  that  ruby?" 

"You  gave  it  to  me,  Billy." 

"And  you're  wearing  it?" 

"Because  I — I'm  fond  of  you,  Billy." 

"Because  you  love  me,  Priscilla." 

"Well,  then,  because  I  love  you.  I  hope  you're 
satisfied,  Billy  Cartwright." 

"I  never  was  more  satisfied  in  my  life." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,  because  I've  got  to  send  you 
home  now.  Trot  along,  Billy  Boy,  while  you're 
happy." 

"All  right,  I'll  go.  By  the  way,  Priscilla,  the 
sailing  time  is  ten  o'clock  instead  of  eleven,  so  I'll 
have  to  come  an  hour  earlier." 

"Heavens,  Billy!    Are  you  sure?" 

"The  Steamship  Office  telephoned  to  Lady  Maud 
late  this  afternoon.  It's  the  tide,  you  know.  Nine 
o'clock  is  an  unholy  hour,  but  it  can't  be  helped, 
Priscilla." 

"I'll  be  ready,  Billy.    I'll  have  breakfast  at  eight, 


222  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

and  say  good-by  to  Dad  here  at  the  house.    Now  run 
along,  dear." 

VI. 

"I've  just  said  good-by  to  Dad,  so  I  can't  see 
very  well,  Billy,"  said  Priscilla. 

"Nobody  can  see  well  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing," I  replied,  pretending  not  to  notice  the  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"But  it  looks  perfectly  grand,"  she  continued. 
"It's  a  regular  whale.  I  do  love  a  big  automobile !" 

"Lloyd  Osbourne  calls  them  Bubbles,"  I  said. 
"I  wonder  why!" 

"Because  they  burst  so  easily,  I  suppose.  Good- 
ness, Billy,  there's  room  in  this  tonneau  for  a 
dozen  people !  Where's  Nipper  ?" 

"Here  he  is.  There  won't  be  any  too  much  room, 
Priscilla;  we're  going  to  pick  up  Lady  Maud,  you 
know." 

"Poor  Dad !"  said  Priscilla.  "I  hate  to  leave  him 
and  Nipper." 

"And  me?" 

"And  you,  Billy." 

"Never  mind.  We'll  not  think  about  that  now. 
All  right,  Charles." 

"The  car  is  perfect,  Billy.  It  runs  just  like  a 
sewing-machine." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,  Priscilla." 

"I  adore  it !     I  feel  better  already." 

"It  will  do  its  little  fifty  miles  an  hour  without 
turning  a  hair.  And  I  bought  it  for  you,  Priscilla  ; 
I'm  going  to  ship  it  over  on  the  next  boat." 


FOR  READING  AND   SPEAKING. 


223 


"Billy,  you're  too  sweet  for  anything!  I  feel 
like  a  little  pig,  leaving  you.  I  do  love  you,  Billy." 

"And  I'll  send  Charles  along  in  case  your  new 
Bubble  bursts." 

"It  will  cost  a  heap  of  money." 

"Anybody  can  be  generous  with  money." 

"Billy  Cartwright  is  the  soul  of  generosity.  But 
do  look  where  we  are!  This  isn't  Fifth  Avenue." 

"Broadway  and  Twenty-eighth  Street,  Priscilla." 

"The  Holland  House  is  on  Fifth  Avenue,  Billy." 

"We'll  turn  at  the  next  corner,"  I  replied. 
"There,  what  did  I  tell  you?" 

"But  we're  crossing  Fifth  Avenue,"  Priscilla  pro- 
tested, "and — why,  he's  stopping,  Billy!" 

"Yes,  he's  stopping,"  I  admitted. 

"In  front  of  a  church!"  gasped  Priscilla. 

"The  Little  Church  Around  the  Corner,"  I  ex- 
plained; "Lady  Maud's  inside." 

"Inside?    Inside  what,  Billy?" 

"Inside  the  church,  of  course,"  I  replied.  "She's 
to  be  one  of  the  witnesses." 

"One  of  the  witnesses!  Haye  you  gone  out  of 
your  mind,  Billy?" 

"I  never  was  more  sane  in  my  life.  We're  to  be 
married." 

"We're  not !" 

"I've  got  the  marriage-license  in  my  pocket," 
I  said.  "Come  on,  dear,  we  haven't  much  time  to 
spare ;  the  boat  leaves  at  eleven." 

"At  ten,"  corrected  Priscilla. 


224  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"At  eleven,"  I  repeated.  "Come,  dear,  Maudie 
is  waiting  for  us." 

"I  can't  be  married  without  Dad !"  wailed  Pris- 
cilla. 

"He'll  be  here  in  a  minute,"  I  replied. 

"Billy,  this  is  outrageous!  I  won't  be  married — 
so  there !" 

"You  might  as  well,"  I  said. 

"But  I  haven't  any  clothes." 

"I've  oceans  of  money,  Priscilla." 

"And  my  passage  is  bought  and  paid  for;  I've  got 
one  of  the  nicest  suites  on  the  boat." 

"The  very  nicest  has  been  reserved  for  W.  P. 
Cartwright  and  wife,"  I  returned.  "Hurry,  dear." 

"I  won't  budge — not  a  step!" 

"Here  comes  Dad,"  I  said.  "Don't  disappoint 
Dad,  Priscilla." 

"I'll  make  Dad  pay  for  this !"  she  declared  grimly. 
"I'm  ready  now.  I'll  marry  you,  Billy  Cartwright, 
but  it's  only  part  of  my  revenge,  mind.  And  I'll 
never  forgive  you — never!" 

"Of  course  you  won't,"  I  said  encouragingly. 
"Of  course  you  won't." 

***** 

"I'm  sorry  I  made  such  a  fuss,  Billy,"  said  Pris- 
cilla, as  she  nestled  up  to  me  on  our  way  to  Hobo- 
ken  and  the  boat.  "It  was  awfully  nice  of  Dad  to 
take  Lady  Maud  with  him,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Only  you  and  me  and  Nipper,"  I  answered 
dreamily.  "It's  too  good  to  be  true,  Priscilla." 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

"I  do  love  you,  Billy." 

"I  know  you  do,  Priscilla." 

"And,  Billy " 

"Yes,  dear?" 

" — I  hope  you  didn't  think  I  was  going  to  Eng 
land  without  you." 

"Not  for  a  minute,"  I  replied.  "Not  for  a  min 
ute,  Priscilla  Cartwright." 


If  You  Want  a  Kiss,  Why,  Take  It. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THERE'S  a  jolly  Saxon  proverb 

That  is  pretty  much  like  this — 
That  a  man  is  half  in  heaven 

If  he  has  a  woman's  kiss. 
There  is  danger  in  delaying, 

For  the  sweetness  may  forsake  it ; 
So  I  tell  you,  bashful  lover, 

If  you  want  a  kiss,  why,  take  it. 

Never  let  another  fellow 

Steal  a  march  on  you  in  this ; 
Never  let  a  laughing  maiden 

See  you  spoiling  for  a  kiss. 
There's  a  royal  way  to  kissing, 

And  the  jolly  ones  who  make  it 
Have  a  motto  that  is  winning, — 

If  you  want  a  kiss,  why,  take  it. 


226  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Any  fool  may  face  a  cannon, 

Anybody  wear  a  crown, 
But  a  man  must  win  a  woman 

If  he'd  have  her  for  his  own. 
Would  you  have  the  golden  apple, 

You  must  find  the  tree  and  shake  it; 
If  the  thing  is  worth  the  having, 

And  you  want  a  kiss,  why,  take  it. 

Who  would  burn  upon  a  desert 

With  a  forest  smiling  by  ? 
Who  would  change  his  sunny  summer 

For  a  bleak  and  wintry  sky  ? 
Oh,  I  tell  you  there  is  magic, 

And  you  cannot,  cannot  break  it ; 
For  the  sweetest  part  of  loving 

Is  to  want  a  kiss,  and  take  it. 


On  Cats  and  Dogs. 

JEROME  K.  JEROME. 
From  "Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow/' 

I  LIKE  cats  and  dogs  very  much  indeed.  How 
jolly  they  are!  They  are  much  superior  to  human 
beings  as  companions.  They  do  not  quarrel  or 
argue  with  you.  They  never  talk  about  them- 
selves, but  listen  to  you  while  you  talk  about  your- 
self, and  keep  up  an  appearance  of  being  interested 
in  the  conversation.  They  never  make  stupid 
remarks.  They  never  observe  to  Miss  Brown  across 


FOR  READING  AND   SPEAKING. 


227 


a  dinner-table,  that  they  always  understood  she  was 
very  sweet  on  Mr.  Jones  (who  has  just  married 
Miss  Robinson).  They  never  mistake  your  wife's 
cousin  for  her  husband,  and  fancy  that  you  are  the 
father-in-law.  And  they  never  ask  a  young  author 
with  fourteen  tragedies,  sixteen  comedies,  seven 
farces,  and  a  couple  of  burlesques  in  his  desk,  why 
he  doesn't  write  a  play. 

They  never  say  unkind  things.  They  never  tell 
us  of  our  faults,  "merely  for  our  own  good."  They 
do  not,  at  inconvenient  moments,  mildly  remind  us 
of  our  past  follies  and  mistakes.  They  do  not  say, 
''Oh  yes,  a  lot  of  use  you  are,  if  you  are  ever  really 
wanted" — sarcastic  like.  They  never  inform  us,  like 
our  innamoratas  sometimes  do,  that  we  are  not 
nearly  so  nice  as  we  used  to  be.  We  are  always  the 
same  to  them. 

And  when  we  bury  our  face  in  our  hands,  and 
wish  we  had  never  been  born,  they  don't  sit  up  very 
straight,  and  observe  that  we  have  brought  it  all  upon 
ourselves.  They  don't  even  hope  it  will  be  a  warning 
to  us.  But  they  come  up  softly;  and  shove  their 
heads  against  us.  If  it  is  a  cat,  she  stands  on  your 
shoulder,  rumples  your  hair,  and  says,  "Lor',  I  am 
sorry  for  you,  old  man,"  as  plain  as  words  can 
speak;  and  if  it  is  a  dog,  he  looks  up  at  you  with 
his  big  true  eyes,  and  says  with  them,  "Well,  you've 
always  got  me,  you  know.  We'll  go  through  the 
world  together,  and  always  stand  by  each  other, 
won't  we?" 


228  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


What  I've  suffered  from  them  this  morning  no 
tongue  can  tell.  It  began  with  Gustavus  Adolphus. 
Gustavus  Adolphus  (they  call  him  "Gusty"  down- 
stairs  for  short)  is  a  very  good  sort  of  dog,  when  he 
is  in  the  middle  of  a  large  field  or  on  a  fairly 
extensive  common,  but  I  won't  have  him  indoors. 
He  means  well,  but  this  house  is  not  his  size.  He 
stretches  himself,  and  over  go  two  chairs  and  a 
whatnot.  He  wags  his  tail,  and  the  room  looks  as 
if  a  devastating  army  had  marched  through  it. 
He  breathes,  and  it  puts  the  fire  out. 

At  dinner-time  he  creeps  in  under  the  table,  lies 
there  for  a  while,  and  then  gets  up  suddenly;  the 
first  intimation  we  have  of  his  movements  being 
given  by  the  table,  which  appears  animated  by  a 
desire  to  turn  somersaults.  We  all  clutch  at  it 
frantically,  and  endeavor  to  maintain  it  in  a  hori- 
zontal position;  whereupon  his  struggles,  he  being 
under  the  impression  that  some  wicked  conspiracy 
is  being  hatched  against  him,  become  fearful,  and 
the  final  picture  presented  is  generally  that  of  an 
overturned  table  and  a  smashed-up  dinner,  sand- 
wiched between  two  sprawling  layers  of  infuriated 
men  and  women. 

He  came  in  this  morning  in  his  usual  style,  which 
he  appears  to  have  founded  on  that  of  an  American 
cyclone,  and  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  sweep  my 
coffee-cup  off  the  table  with  his  tail,  sending  the 
contents  full  into  the  middle  of  my  waistcoat. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


229 


I  rose  from  my  chair,  hurriedly,  and  remarking, 
approached  him  at  a  rapid  rate.     He 


preceded  me  in  the  direction  of  the  door.  At  the 
door  he  met  Eliza  coming  in  with  eggs.  Eliza  ob- 
served "Ugh!"  and  sat  down  on  the  floor,  the  eggs 
took  up  different  positions  about  the  carpet,  where 
they  spread  themselves  out,  and  Gustavus  Adolphus 
left  the  room.  I  called  after  him,  strongly  advising 
him  to  go  straight  downstairs,  and  not  let  me  see 
him  again  for  the  next  hour  or  so;  and  he,  seem- 
ing to  agree  with  me,  dodged  the  coal-scoop,  and 
went;  while  I  returned,  dried  myself,  and  finished 
breakfast.  I  made  sure  that  he  had  gone  into  the 
yard,  but  when  I  looked  into  the  passage  ten  min- 
utes later,  he  was  sitting  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
I  ordered  him  down  at  once,  but  he  only  barked  and 
jumped  about,  so  I  went  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

It  was  Tittums.  She  was  sitting  on  the  top  stair 
but  one,  and  wouldn't  let  him  pass. 

Tittums  is  our  kitten.  She  is  about  the  size  of  a 
penny  roll.  Her  back  was  up  and  she  was  swearing 
most  dreadfully. 

I  told  her  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself, 
brought  up  in  our  family  as  she  was,  too.  I  don't 
so  much  mind  hearing  an  old  cat  swear,  but  I  can't 
bear  to  see  a  mere  kitten  give  way  to  it.  It  seems 
sad  in  one  so  young. 

I  put  Tittums  in  my  pocket,  and  returned  to  my 
desk.  I  forgot  her  for  the  moment,  and  when  I 
looked  I  found  that  she  had  squirmed  out  of  my 


230 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


pocket  on  to  the  table,  and  was  trying  to  swallow 
the  pen;  then  she  put  her  leg  into  the  inkpot,  and 
upset  it ;  then  she  licked  her  leg ;  then  she  swore 
again — at  me  this  time. 

I  put  her  down  on  the  floor,  and  there  Tim  began 
rowing  with  her.  I  do  wish  Tim  would  mind  his 
own  business.  It  was  no  concern  of  his  what  she 
had  been  doing.  Besides,  he  is  not  a  saint  himself. 
He  is  only  a  two-year-old  fox  terrier,  and  he  inter- 
feres with  everything,  and  gives  himself  the  airs  of 
a  gray-headed  Scotch  collie. 

Tittums'  mother  has  come  in,  and  Tim  has  got 
his  nose  scratched,  for  which  I  am  remarkably  glad. 
I  have  put  them  all  three  out  in  the  passage,  where 
they  are  fighting  at  the  present  moment.  I'm  in  a 
mess  with  the  ink,  and  in  a  thundering  bad  temper ; 
and  if  anything  more  in  the  cat  or  dog  line  comes 
fooling  about  me  this  morning,  it  had  better  bring 
its  own  funeral  contractor  with  it. 

Da  Strit  Pianna. 
WALLACE  IRWIN. 

From  "Random  Rhymes  and  Odd  Numbers."  Copy- 
right, 1906,  by  the  Macmillan  Company. 

IT  dis-a  way  in  dis-a  worl',  w'ere  everat'ing  don'  fit, 
Some  fellas  mak-a  da  music,  an'  da  oders  pay  for  it, 
An'  da's-a  w'y  me  an'  Bianca,  evera  place  we  go, 
We  play-a  tunes  da  pipple  lak,   from  Harlem  to 
Park  Row ; 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


231 


An*  if  our  music  somatime  sad,  an'  somatime  gay — 
Well,  da's  da  kine  o'  music  w'at  da  strit  pianna 
play! 

Ting-a-ting,  ting!   Hear  'ow  it  sing — 

Come,  .dropa  some  money  in ! 
All-a  right,  Bianc',  I  turn-a  da  crank, 
You  shak-a  da  tambourin'. 

You  t'ink  because  da  strit  pianna  work  by  crank  an' 

wheel 
It  has-a  not  da  'eart  an*  soul,  it  don't  know  'ow  to 

feel? 
Den  tell-a  me  w'y,  w'en  winter  come,  an'  snow  is  in 

da  sky, 
It  play-a  "Good  Ol'  Summa  Time"  an'  mak'  you 

want  to  cry ; 
An'  w'en  da  spring-a-time  'as  come  an'  everat'ing 

ees  gay, 

You  laugh-a  ha-ha ! — so  'appy — w'en  da  strit  pianna 
play? 

Bang-a-bang  bing !    Mos'  anyt'ing — 

Drop-a  yo'  neekel  in! 
All-a  right,  Bianc',  I  turn-a  da  crank, 
You  whack-a  da  tambourin'. 

Las'  weenter  w'en  da  win'  ees  col'  an'  snow  all  over 

He, 

Our  HT  gal  Maria  she  ees  sick  an'  al-a-mos'  die ; 
Den  poor  Bianca  stay  at  'ome  an'  I  go  out  alone, 
An'  in-a  evera  tune  I  grind  I  'ear  my  baby  moan, 


232 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


Till  "Fare-a-well,  My  Violet"  grow  loud  an'  float 

away — 

Virgin  of  Sorrow,  You  know  w'at  dat  strit  pianna 
play ! 

Tum-a-tum,  turn  !   da  trouble  he  come, 

Da  sorrow  he  enter  in. 
All-a  right,  Bianc',  I  turn-a  da  crank, 
You  shak-a  da  tambourin'. 

But  w'en  da  day  ees  nice-a  warm,  jus'  lak-a  day 

Italee, 
An'  chil'ren  play-a  'roun'  da  Square,  as  'appy  as 

can  be, 
Me  an'  Bianc'  we  work-a  so  'ard  to  mak'  dat  strit 

pianna 
Play  "I-a  Got  One  Feel  for  You"  and  maybe  "Kus- 

ticana" — 
Da  chil'ren  dance,  we  mak-a  da  mon,  an'  everat'ing 

ees  gay ; 

Da's  w'en  I  vera  glad  to  'ear  da  strit  pianna  play ! 
Tum-a-to,  to !    bulla  for  you ! 

Mak-a  da  plenty  tin! 
All-a  right,  Bianc',  I  turn-a  da  crank, 
You  shak-a  da  tambourin'. 

By  gran'  'otel,  by  cheap-a  saloon,  all  same,  we  do 

our  part, 
An*  w'en  we  do  not  mak-a  da  mon,  we  live  jus*  for 

our  Art ; 
But  w'en  we  catch-a  plenty  coin  we  verra  glad, 

for  we 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


233 


T'ink  o'  dat  vineyard  w'at  we  buy  in  sunny  Lom- 

bardee, 

An'  'ow  Bianc'  an'  HT  Maria  goin'  'ome  some  day, 
Live  'appy  from  da  music  w'at  dat  strit  pianna  play ! 
Tum-a-tum,  turn !    ever-r-r-a-one  come, 

Drop-a  da  neekel  in ! 
All-a  right,  Bianc',  I  turn-a  da  crank, 
You  pass-a  da  tambourin'. 


What  May  Said  to  December. 

MARK  AMBIENT. 

OLD  December  in  his  dotage 

Tottered  down  the  hill  one  day, 
Stopped  at  Widow  Worldly's  cottage — 

Stopped  to  talk  to  little  May. 
May  was  busy  in  the  dairy, 

Old  December  said,  "Good-day," 
Thought  she  looked  just  like  a  fairy, 

Told  her  not  to  run  away. 
"Prithee,  dear,  do  you  remember 

What  I  said  last  Christmas  Day?" 
But  May  laughed  at  old  December, 
Said  she'd  taken  it  in  play : 

Ha!  Ha!  Ha!   Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 

Said  she'd  taken  it  in  play, 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha!   Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 
Laughed  the  merry  little  May. 


234  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"Nay,  I  meant  each  word  I  uttered 

That  day  'neath  the  mistletoe." 
"Do  you  like  your  parsnips  buttered  ?" 

Little  May  asked,  laughing  low. 
"Child,  I  wish  that  for  one  moment 

You  would  try  to  serious  be, 
For  I've  spoken  to  your  mother 

And  she  tells  me  you  are  free, 
But,  my  dear,  you  have  one  lover — " 
(Here  he  dropped  on  gouty  knee, 
Nearly  knocked  the  milk-pail  over!) 
"Do  not  laugh,  dear — I  am  he !" 

Ha!  Ha!  Ha!   Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 

"Do  not  laugh,  dear — I  am  he." 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha!   Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 
"Are  you  really— He !     He!     He!" 

"Of  my  wealth  you'll  be  partaker, 

I  can't  spend  it  all  myself, 
Gold  have  I,  and  many  an  acre " 

"Please  sir,  put  this  on  the  shelf." 
"Child,  my  wishes  are  your  mother's, 

She  has  told  me  so  herself, 
She  prefers  me  to  all  others, 

Think  of  her,  you  thoughtless  elf." 
"That  I  will,"  said  May,  "for  really 

I  don't  care  for  lands  or  pelf, 
And  as  mother  loves  you  dearly 

She  may  marry  you  herself." 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!   Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


235 


"She  may  marry  you  herself," 
Ha!  Ha!  Ha!   Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha! 
Laughed  the  merry  little  elf. 


Cordial  Relations. 

ANTHONY  HOPE. 
From  'The  Dolly  Dialogues." 

THE  other  day  I  paid  a  call  on  Miss  Dolly  Foster 
for  the  purposing  of  presenting  to  her  my  small 
offering  on  the  occasion  of  her  marriage  to  Lord 
Mickleham.  It  was  a  pretty  little  bit  of  jewelry — a 
pearl  heart,  broken  (rubies  played  the  part  of 
blood),  and  held  together  by  a  gold  pin  set  with 
diamonds,  the  whole  surmounted  by  an  earl's  coro- 
net. I  had  taken  some  trouble  about  it,  and  I  was 
grateful  when  Miss  Dolly  asked  me  to  explain  the 
symbolism. 

"It  is  my  heart,"  I  observed.  "The  fracture  is  of 
your  making :  the  pin — 

Here  Miss  Dolly  interrupted;  to  tell  the  truth, 
I  was  not  sorry,  for  I  was  fairly  gravelled  for  the 
meaning  of  the  pin. 

"What  nonsense,  Mr.  Carter!"  said  she;  "but 
it's  awfully  pretty.  Thanks,  so  very,  very  much. 
Aren't  relations  funny  people?" 

"If  you  wish  to  change  the  subject,  pray  do,"  said 
I.  "I'll  change  anything  except  my  affections." 

"Look  here,"  she  pursued,  holding  out  a  bundle 
of  letters.  "Here  are  the  congratulatory  epistles 
from  relations.  Shall  I  read  you  a  few?" 


236  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"It  will  be  a  most  agreeable  mode  of  passing  the 
time,"  said  I. 

"This  is  from  Aunt  Georgiana — she's  a  widow — 
lives  at  Cheltenham.  'My  dearest  Dorothea ' " 

"Who?" 

"Dorothea's  my  name,  Mr.  Carter.  It  means  the 
gift  of  Heaven,  you  know." 

"Precisely.  Pray  proceed,  Miss  Dolly.  I  did  not 
at  first  recognize  you." 

'  'My  dearest  Dorothea,  I  have  heard  the  news 
of  your  engagement  to  Lord  Mickleham  with  deep 
thankfulness.  To  obtain  the  love  of  an  honest  man 
is  a  great  prize.  I  hope  you  will  prove  worthy  of 
it.  Marriage  is  a  trial  and  an  opportunity— 

"Hear,  hear!"  said  I.  "A  trial  for  the  husband 
and " 

"Be  quiet,  Mr.  Carter.  'A  trial  and  an  oppor- 
tunity. It  searches  the  heart  and  it  affords  a  sphere 

of  usefulness  which '  So  she  goes  on,  you  know. 

I  don't  see  why  I  need  be  lectured  just  because 
I'm  going  to  be  married,  do  you,  Mr.  Carter?" 

"Let's  try  another,"  said  I.  "Who's  that  on  pink 
paper?" 

"Oh,  that's  Georgy  Vane.  She's  awful  fun. 
'Dear  old  Dolly, — So  you've  brought  it  off.  Hearty 
congrats.  I  thought  you  were  going  to  be  silly  and 

throw  away •'  There's  nothing  else  there,  Mr. 

Carter.  Look  here.  Listen  to  this.  It's  from 
Uncle  William.  He's  a  clergyman,  you  know. 
'My  dear  Niece. — I  have  heard  with  great  gratifica- 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


237 


tion  of  your  engagement.  Your  aunt  and  I  unite  in 
all  good  wishes.  I  recollect  Lord  Mickleham's 
father  when  I  held  a  curacy  near  Worcester.  He 
was  a  regular  attendant  at  church  and  a  supporter 
of  all  good  works  in  the  diocese.  If  only  his  son 
takes  after  him'  (fancy  Archie!)  'you  have  secured 
a  prize.  I  hope  you  have  a  proper  sense  of  the 
responsibilities  you  are  undertaking.  Marriage 
affords  no  small  opportunities ;  it  also  entails  certain 
trials ' " 

"Why,  you're  reading  Aunt  Georgiana  again." 

"Ami?    No,  it's  Uncle  William." 

"Then  let's  try  a  fresh  cast — unless  you'll  finish 
Georgy  Vane's." 

"Well,  here's  Cousin  Susan's.  She's  an  old  maid, 
you  know.  It's  very  long.  Here's  a  bit:  'Woman 
has  it  in  her  power  to  exercise  a  sacred  influence. 
I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Lord  Micklc- 
ham,  but  I  hope,  my  dear,  that  you  will  use  your 
power  over  him  for  good.  It  is  useless  for  me  to 
deny  that  when  you  stayed  with  me,  I  thought  you 
were  addicted  to  frivolity.  Doubtless  marriage  will 
sober  you.  Try  to  make  a  good  use  of  its  lessons. 
I  am  sending  you  a  biscuit  tin' — and  so  on." 

"A  very  proper  letter,"  said  I. 

Miss  Dolly  indulged  in  a  slight  grimace,  and  took 
up  another  letter. 

"This,"  she  said,  "is  from  my  sister-in-law,  Mrs. 
Algernon  Foster." 

"A  daughter  of  Lord  Doldrums,  wasn't  she?" 


£33 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


"Yes.  'My  dear  Dorothea, — I  have  heard  your 
news.  I  do  hope  it  will  turn  out  happily.  I  believe 
that  any  woman  who  conscientiously  docs  her  duty 
can  find  happiness  in  married  life.  Her  husband 
and  children  occupy  all  her  time  and  all  her 
thoughts,  and  if  she  can  look  for  a  few  of  the 
lighter  pleasures  of  life,  she  has  at  least  the  knowl- 
edge that  she  is  of  use  in  the  world.  Please  accept 
the  accompanying  volumes'  (it's  Browning)  'as  a 

small '  I  say,  Mr.  Carter,  do  you  think  it's  really 

like  that?" 

"There  is  still  time  to  draw  back,"  I  observed. 

"Oh,  don't  be  silly.  Here,  this  is  my  brother 
Tom's.  'Dear  Dol, — I  thought  Mickleham  rather 
an  ass  when  I  met  him,  but  I  dare  say  you  know 
best.  What's  his  place  like?  Does  he  take  a 
moor  ?  I  thought  I  read  that  he  kept  a  yacht.  Does 
he  ?  Give  him  my  love  and  a  kiss.  Good  luck,  old 
girl. — Tom.  P.S. — I'm  glad  it's  not  me,  you 
know/  " 

"A  disgusting  letter,"  I  observed. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Miss  Dolly,  dimpling.  "It's 
just  like  dear  old  Tom.  Listen  to  grandpapa's. 
'My  dear  granddaughter, — The  alliance'  (I  rather 
like  its  being  called  an  alliance,  Mr.  Carter.  It 
sounds  like  the  Royal  Family,  doesn't  it?)  'you  are 
about  to  contract  is  in  all  respects  a  suitable  one. 
I  send  you  my  blessing,  and  a  small  check  to  help 
toward  your  trousseau.  Yours  affectionately,  Jno. 
Wm.  Foster.' " 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  239 

"That,"  said  I,  "is  the  best  up  to  now." 

"Yes,  it's  500,"  said  she,  smiling.  "Here's  old 
Lady  M.'s." 

"Whose?"  I  exclaimed. 

"Archie's  mother,  you  know.  'My  dear  Dorothea 
(as  I  suppose  I  must  call  you  now)— Archibald  has 
informed  us  of  his  engagement,  and  I  and  the  girls' 
(there  are  five  girls,  Mr.  Carter)  'hasten  to  welcome 
his  bride.  I  am  sure  Archie  will  make  his  wife  very 
happy.  He  is  rather  particular  (like  his  dear 
father),  but  he  has  a  good  heart,  and  is  not  fidgety 
about  his  meals.  Of  course  we  shall  be  delighted 
to  move  out  of  The  Towers  at  once.  I  hope  we  shall 
see  a  great  deal  of  you  soon.  Archie  is  full  of 
your  praises,  and  we  thoroughly  trust  his  taste. 
Archie —  It's  all  about  Archie,  you  see." 

"Naturally,"  said  I. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  I  count  a  little, 
too.  Oh,  look  here.  Here's  Cousin  Fred's — but 
he's  always  so  silly.  I  shan't  read  you  his." 

"Oh,  just  a  bit  of  it,"  I  pleaded. 

"Well,  here's  one  bit.  'I  suppose  I  can't  murder 
him,  so  I  must  wish  him  joy.  All  I  can  say  is,  Dolly, 
that  he's  the  luckiest'  (something  I  can't  read- 
either  fellow  or — devil)  'I  ever  heard  of.  I  wonder 
if  you've  forgotten  that  evening '  " 

"Well,  go  on."    For  she  stopped. 

"Oh,  there's  nothing  else." 

"In  fact,  you  have  forgotten  the  evening?" 

"Entirely,"   said   Miss   Dolly,   tossing   her   head. 


240  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"But  he  sends  me  a  love  of  a  bracelet.  He  can't 
possibly  pay  for  it,  poor  boy." 

"Young  knave!"  said  I  severely.  (I  had  paid 
for  my  pearl  heart.) 

"Then  come  a  lot  from  girls.  Oh,  there's  one 
from  Maud  Tottenham — she's  second  cousin,  you 
know — it's  rather  amusing.  'I  used  to  know  your 
fiance  slightly.  He  seemed  very  nice,  but  it's  a 
long  while  ago,  and  I  never  saw  much  of  him.  I 
hope  he  is  really  fond  of  you,  and  that  it  is  not 
a  mere  fancy.  Since  you  love  him  so  much,  it 
would  be  a  pity  if  he  did  not  d^ply  care  for  you.' " 

"Interpret,  Miss  Dolly,"  said  I. 

"She  tried  to  catch  him  herself,"  said  Miss  Dolly. 

"Ah,  I  see.     Is  that  all?" 

"The  others  aren't  very  interesting." 

"Then  let's  finish  Georgy  Vane's." 

"Really?"  she  asked,  smiling. 

"Yes.     Really." 

"Oh,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  don't,"  said  she,  laugh- 
ing, and  she  hunted  out  the  pink  note  and  spread  it 
before  her.  "Let  me  see.  Where  was  I?  Oh,  here. 
'I  thought  you  were  going  to  be  silly  and  throw 
away  your  chances  on  some  of  the  men  who  used  to 
flirt  with  you.  Archie  Mickleham  may  not  be  a 
genius,  but  he's  a  good  fellow  and  a  swell  and  rich  ; 
he's  not  a  pauper,  like  Phil  Meadows,  or  a  snob,  like 
Charlie  Dawson,  or —  '  Shall  I  go  on,  Mr.  Car- 
ter? No,  I  won't.  I  didn't  see  what  it  was." 

"Yes,  you  shall  go  on." 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  241 

"Oh,  no,  I  can't,"  and  she  folded  up  the  letter. 

"Then  I  will,"  and  I'm  ashamed  to  say  I  snatched 
the  letter.  Miss  Dolly  jumped  to  her  feet.  I  fled 
behind  the  table.  She  ran  round.  I  dodged. 

"  'Or '  "  I  began  to  read. 

"Stop!"  cried  she. 

"  'Or  a  young  spendthrift  like  that  man — I  forget 
his  name — whom  you  used  to  go  on  with  at  such 
a  pace  at  Monte  Carlo  last  winter.'  " 

"Stop  !"  she  cried,  stamping  her  foot.    I  read  on — 

"  'No  doubt  he  was  charming,  my  dear,  and  no 
doubt  anybody  would  have  thought  you  meant  it; 
but  I  never  doubted  you.  Still,  weren't  you  just  a 
little '  " 

"Stop!"  she  cried.    "You  must  stop,  Mr.  Carter." 

So  then  I  stopped.  I  folded  the  letter  and  handed 
it  back  to  her.  Her  cheeks  flushed  red  as  she  took 
it. 

"I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman,"  said  she,  bit- 
ing her  lip. 

"I  was  at  Monte  Carlo  last  winter  myself,"  said  I. 

"Lord  Mickleham,"  said  the  butler,  throwing  open 
the  door. 


A  Certain  Young  Lady. 

WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

THERE'S  a  certain  young  lady 
Who's  just  in  her  heyday 

And  full  of  all  mischief,  I  ween, 


242 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

So  teasing !   so  pleasing ! 
Capricious !    delicious ! 
And  you  know  very  well  whom  I  mean. 

With  an  eye  dark  as  night, 
Yet  than  noonday  more  bright, 
Was  ever  a  black  eye  so  keen? 
It  can  thrill  with  a  glance, 
With  a  beam  can  entrance, 
And  you  know  very  well  whom  I  mean. 

With  a  stately  step — such  as 
You'd  expect  in  a  duchess — 

And  a  brow  might  distinguish  a  queen, 
With  a  mighty  proud  air, 
That  says,  "Touch  me  who  dare," 
And  you  know  very  well  whom  I  mean. 

With  a  toss  of  her  head 
That  strikes  one  quite  dead, 

But  a  smile  to  revive  one  again ; 
That  toss  so  appalling! 
That  smile  so  enthralling! 
And  you  know  very  well  whom  I  mean. 

Confound  her  !  devil  take  her  ! — 
A  cruel  heart-breaker — 

But  hold!    see  that  smile  so  serene. 
God  love  her !   God  bless  her ! 
May  nothing  distress  her ! 
You  know  very  well  whom  I  mean. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  243 

Heaven  help  the  adorer 
Who  happens  to  bore  her, 

The  lover  who  wakens  her  spleen ; 
But  too  blest  for  a  sinner 
Is  he  who  shall  win  her, 
And  you  know  very  well  whom  I  mean. 

The  Ape  and  the  Lady. 

W.  S.  GILBERT. 

A  LADY  fair,  of  lineage  high, 
Was  loved  by  an  Ape,  in  the  days  gone  by. 
he  Maid  was  radiant  as  the  sun, 
he  Ape  was  a  most  unsightly  one — 
So  it  would  not  do, 
His  scheme  fell  through; 
'or  the  Maid,  when  his  love  took  formal  shape, 
Expressed  such  terror 
At  his  monstrous  error 

at  he  stammered  an  apology  and  made  his  'scape, 
he  picture  of  a  disconcerted  Ape. 

With  a  view  to  rise  in  the  social  scale, 
He  shaved  his  bristles,  and  he  docked  his  tail, 
e  grew  mustachios,  and  he  took  his  tub, 
nd  he  paid  a  guinea  to  a  toilet  club. 
But  it  would  not  do, 
The  scheme  fell  through; 
'or  the  Maid  was  Beauty's  fairest  Queen, 
With  golden  tresses, 
Like  a  real  princess's, 


244  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

While  the  Ape,  despite  his  razor  keen, 
Was  the  apiest  Ape  that  ever  was  seen ! 

He  bought  white  ties  and  he  bought  dress  suits, 
He  crammed  his  feet  into  bright  tight  boots, 
And  to  start  his  life  on  a  brand-new  plan, 
He  christened  himself  Darwinian  Man ! 

But  it  would  not  do, 

The  scheme  fell  through — 
For  the  Maiden  fair,  whom  the  monkey  craved, 

Was  a  radiant  Being, 

With  a  brain  far-seeing — 
While  a  Man,  however  well-behaved, 
At  best  is  only  a  monkey  shaved ! 


Rip  Van  Winkle. 

From  Act  I.  of  the  play  as  produced  by  Joseph  Jeffersoi 
following  the  story  by  Washington  Irving. 

Characters :  RIP  VAN  WINKLE,  DERRICK  VON  BEEKMAI 
and  NICK  VEDDER,  the  village  inn-keeper.  DERRICK  an 
NICK  are  present  when  RIP  enters,  shaking  off  the  childrei 

Rip  (to  the  children).  Say!  hullo  dere,  d 
Yacob  Stein !  du  kleine  spitzboob.  Let  dat  do 
Schneider  alone,  will  you  ?  Dere,  I  tole  you  dat  a 
de  time,  if  you  don'd  let  him  alone  he's  goin'  t 
bide  you !  Why,  hullo,  Derrick !  how  you  was 
Ach  my!  Did  you  hear  dem  liddle  fellers  jus 
now?  Dey  most  plague  me  crazy.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
like  to  laugh  my  outsides  in  every  time  I  t'ink  abou 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  24$ 

it.  Just  now,  as  we  was  comin'  along  togedder, 
Schneider  and  me — I  don'd  know  if  you  know 
Schneider  myself?  Well,  he's  my  dog.  Well,  dem 
liddle  fellers,  dey  took  Schneider,  und — ha,  ha,  ha! 
— dey — ha,  ha! — dey  tied  a  tin  kettle  mit  his  tail! 
Ha,  ha,  ha !  My  gracious !  of  you  had  seen  dat 
dog  run !  My,  how  scared  he  was !  Veil,  he  was 
a-runnin'  an'  de  kettle  was  a-bangin'  an' — ha,  ha, 
ha!  you  believe  it,  dat  dog,  he  run  right  betwixt  me 
an'  my  legs!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  He  spill  me  und  all  dem 
liddle  fellers  down  in  de  mud  togedder.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Von  B.  Ah,  yes,  that's  all  right,  Rip,  very  funny, 
very  funny ;  but  what  do  you  say  to  a  glass  of 
liquor,  Rip? 

Rip.  Well,  now,  Derrick,  what  do  I  generally  say 
to  a  glass?  I  generally  say  it's  a  good  t'ing,  don'd 
I?  Und  I  generally  say  a  good  deal  more  to  what 
is  in  it,  dan  to  de  glass. 

Von  B.  Certainly,  certainly!  Say,  hallo,  there! 
Nick  Vedder,  bring  out  a  bottle  of  your  best! 

Rip.  Dat's  right — fill  'em  up.  You  wouldn't 
believe  it,  Derrick,  but  dat  is  de  first  one  I  have 
had  to-day.  I  guess  maybe  de  reason  is,  I  couldn't 
got  it  before.  Ah,  Derrick,  my  score  is  too  big! 
Well,  here  is  your  good  health  und  your  family's — 
may  they  all  live  long  und  prosper.  (They  drink.) 
Ach !  you  may  well  smack  your  lips,  und  go  ah,  ah ! 
over  dat  liquor.  You  don'd  give  me  such  liquor  like 
dat  every  day,  Nick  Vedder.  Well,  come  on,  fill 
'em  up  again.  Git  out  mit  dat  water,  Nick  Vedder, 


246  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

I  don'd  want  no  water  in  my  liquor.  Good  liquor 
and  water,  Derrick,  is  just  like  man  und  wife,  dey 
don'd  agree  well  togedder — dat's  me  und  my  wife, 
any  way.  Well,  come  on  again.  Here  is  your  good 
health  und  your  family's,  und  may  dey  all  live  long 
und  prosper! 

Nick  Vedder.  That's  right,  Rip;  drink  away, 
and  "drown  your  sorrows  in  the  flowing  bowl." 

Rip.  Drown  my  sorrows?  Ya,  dat's  all  very 
well,  but  she  don'd  drown.  My  wife  is  my  sorrow 
und  you  can't  drown  her;  she  tried  it  once,  but 
she  couldn't  do  it.  What,  didn't  you  hear  about 
dat,  de  day  what  Gretchen  she  like  to  got  drowned  ? 
Ach,  my!  dat's  de  funniest  t'ing  in  de  world.  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  it.  It  was  de  same  day  what  we 
got  married.  I  bet  I  don'd  forgot  dat  day  so  long 
what  I  live.  You  know  dat  Hudson  River  what 
dey  git  dem  boats  over — well,  dat's  de  same  place. 
Well,  you  know  dat  boat  what  Gretchen  she  was 
a-goin'  to  come  over  in,  dat  got  up sett ed — ya,  just 
went  righd  by  der  boddom.  But  she  wasn't  in  de 
boat.  Oh,  no;  if  she  had  been  in  de  boat,  well,  den, 
maybe  she  might  have  got  drowned.  You  can't 
tell  anyt'ing  at  all  about  a  t'ing  like  dat ! 

l^on  B.  Ah,  no;  but  I'm  sure,  Rip,  if  Gretchen 
were  to  fall  into  the  water  now,  you  would  risk  your 
life  to  save  her. 

Rip.  Would  1?  Well,  I  am  not  so  sure  about  dat 
myself.  When  we  was  first  got  married  ?  Oh,  ya ; 
I  know  I  would  have  done  it  den,  but  I  don'd  know 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


247 


how  it  would  be  now.  But  it  would  be  a  good  deal 
more  my  duty  now  as  it  was  den.  Don'd  you  know, 
Derrick,  when  a  man  gits  married  a  long  time — 
mit  his  wife — he  gits  a  good  deal  attached  mit  her, 
und  it  would  be  a  good  deal  more  my  duty  now  as 
it  was  den.  But  I  don'd  know,  Derrick.  I  am 
afraid  if  Gretchen  should  fall  in  de  water  now  und 
should  say,  "Rip,  Rip!  help  me  oud" — I  should 
say,  "Mrs.  Van  Winkle,  I  will  just  go  home  und 
t'ink  about  it."  Oh,  no,  Derrick;  if  Gretchen  fall 
in  de  water  now  she's  got  to  swim,  I  told  you  dat — 
ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!  Hullo!  dat's  her  a-comin'  now; 
I  guess  it's  bedder  I  go  oud ! 


Before  Playing  Tinkertown. 

(A   Distinguished   Citizen   Advises  the  Advance   Agent.) 

EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE. 

From  "Rimes  to  be  Read."    Copyright,  1897,  by  Edmund 
V.   Cooke.     Reprinted  by  permission. 

So  you're  goan'  to  give  a  show  ? 
Well,  I  s'pose  you  likely  know 
Yer  own  bus'ness,  but  I'm  glad 
— Ez  fer  me — I  never  had 
Money  in  the  show  biz  here, 
Fer  our  folks  is  mighty  queer. 
An'  you  see  when  they  first  built 
Our  new  Op'ry  House,  they  kilt 
The  hull  business,  'cause  they  give 
More  shows  than  could  run — an'  live. 


248  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Give  two  in  one  week  one  time. 

One  was  minstrels.    They  was  prime ! 

But  what  kilt  us  was  the  other; 

Some  blame  lecturer  or-ruther 

Talked  about  a  Chiny  wall 

An'  a  Pyramids  an'  all 

That  there  sort  o'  rot.     An'  so, 

Bein'  as  folks  had  paid,  you  know, 

Fifteen  cents  to  see  a  show, 

Lots  of  'em  felt  ruther  sore 

An'  don't  go  to  shows  no  more. 

Course  your  show  is  good?    No  doubt. 
But  you  see  the  town's  showed  out ; 
Less'n  three  weeks  back  we  had 
Hamlut.     Had  it  purty  bad. 
Actors — they  was  purty  fair, 
Speshly  one  with  yeller  hair. 
He  had  talunt !    He  could  shout 
An'  jes'  drown  the  others  out ! 
But  the  play  itself  was  sad. 
'Sides,  it  was  a  draggy,  bad 
Sort  of  sadness.     Didn't  begin 
To  come  up  to  ol'  East  Lynne ! 

Jabez  Tubbs,  he  sez,  sez  he, 
"I'll  take  ol'  East  Lynne  fer  me; 
Mebbe  these  new  plays  is  fine, 
But  I'll  take  the  ol'  fer  mine." 
'Scuse  me  fer  goan'  on  this  way, 
But  I'm  feared  yer  show  won't  pay. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

It's  a  bad  week   fer  a  show, 
'Cause  most  folks  that  gits  to  go 
Is  a-restin'  up  jest  now 
Fer  the  Social.     An'  that's  how 
Things  most  always  is  'round  here. 
P'r'aps  there's  nothin'  fer  a  year, 
Then,  first  thing  a  feller  knows, 
We're  just  overrun  with  shows. 
P'r'aps  a  little  later  might 
Find  a  better  week,  an'  night. 
Still,  I  dunno,  fer  ye  see 
P'tracted  meetin'  soon'll  be, 
An'  of  course  you  know  that's  free, 
An'  that  nachelly  kills  a  show 
Where  you  got  to  pay  to  git  to  go. 


249 


The  Late  John  Wiggins. 
ELLIS   PARKER  BUTLER. 

From  Everybody's  Magazine.  Copyright,  1909,  by  the 
Ridgway  Company. 

I  FIRST  met  John  Wiggins  on  the  second  day  of 
May,  one  year  ago.  I  was  living  in  a  small  house 
in  the  village  of  Westcote,  on  Long  Island,  when  I 
learned  that  the  old  Gibbs  Mansion  on  Fremont 
Street  was  vacant.  I  leased  the  place,  and  on  the 
first  of  May  moved  in. 

Toward  evening  we  had  things  installed  in  a 
rough,  temporary  way,  and  next  morning  we  all  set 
to  work  hanging  pictures  and  so  on,  and  I  was  hard 


250 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


at  it  in  the  room  I  had  chosen  for  my  study,  on  the 
second  floor,  when  Agnes  called  up  to  me. 

"Edgar,"  she  said,  "can  you  come  down  for 
minute  ?    A  man  wants  to  see  you." 

I  went  down  just  as  I  was,  collarless  and  bare- 
armed,  and  as  I  descended  Agnes  vanished  toward 
the  kitchen,  merely  saying,  as  she  went:  "In  the 
parlor." 

In  the  parlor,  sitting  on  one  of  the  chairs,  was  a 
rather  stout  man  with  a  red  face.  He  looked  like 
a  hearty  and  well-tanned  market  gardener  dressed 
in  his  Sunday  clothes. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  sheepish  grin,  before  I 
could  speak,  "I've  come  back."  Immediately,  as  if 
he  felt  he  had  made  a  mistake,  he  said  it  again,  dif- 
ferently. 

"Well,"  he  said,  gruffly,  "I've  come  back."  There 
was  something  threatening  in  his  tone,  which  I  re- 
sented, and  he  tried  again.  He  said  cheerfully, 
"Well,  I've  came  back." 

"Back?"  I  said,  puzzled. 

"That's  it,"  he  said,  triumphantly.  "I  was  afraid 
I  couldn't  do  it,  but  I  done  it !  I'm  back." 

I  tried  to  remember  him,  but  I  could  not. 

"I'm  John  Wiggins,"  he  said,  as  if  that  settled  it, 
"and  you  needn't  bother  riggin'  up  a  room  for  me 
in  the  house.  I'll  sleep  in  the  barn.  Don't  you  go 
to  no  trouble  for  me  at  all.  I'll  eat  in  the  kitchen." 

I  was  about  to  explain  that  he  must  have  mistaken 
the  house,  when  he  went  .on.  "Come  to  think  of  it," 
he  said,  grinning,  "I  don't  eat." 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


251 


"Come  to  think  of  it,"  he  said  with  a  greater  grin, 
"I  don't  sleep." 

He  bent  over  and  rubbed  his  left  knee  and  calf, 
ending  by  giving  the  ankle  a  few  brisk  rubs. 

"I  might  say,"  he  said,  "that  wages  ain't  no  object. 
Ain't  that  fair?  All  I  want  is  work,  and  no  feed 
and  no  sleep.  Ain't  that  fair?  And  no  wages. 
Ain't  that  fair?  And  come  to  think  of  it,  it  don't 
make  no  difference,  anyway.  IV?  come  back,  and 
you  can't  help  it.  Where  d'you  keep  the  scythe?" 

"Now,  see  here!"  I  said  suddenly,  for,  although 
I  am  a  good-tempered  man,  I  felt  that  this  fellow 
was  going  too  far.  "I  don't  know  what  you  want, 
but  I  know  I  don't  want  you.  Good  morning." 

John  Wiggins  rubbed  his  left  leg,  but  he  did  not 
get  up.  "I  just  thought  it  would  be  sort  of  polite 
to  let  you  know  I  was  coming,"  he  said,  "and  if 
you  ain't  got  a  scythe  I  can  use  a  sickle,  but  if  you 
ain't  got  a  sickle  you'll  have  to  get  one." 

"See  here,"  I  exclaimed,  "I  have  no  time  to  fool 
away.  If  you  have  a  sensible  request  to  make, 
make  it,  and  I'll  give  you  a  civil  answer.  Who  are 
you,  anyway?" 

"Well,  now,"  said  the  man,  rubbing  his  leg 
gently,  "I'll  tell  you.  I'll  tell  you,  but  I  wouldn't 
tell  everybody,  by  no  means.  I'm  a  ghost." 

He  grinned,  and  continued  rubbing  his  left  leg.  I 
could  see  nothing  ghostly  about  him.  To  my  normal 
eye  he  was  a  hearty  man-of-all-work,  with,  perhaps, 
a  touch  of  rheumatism  in  one  leg;  and  to  my  nor- 
mal nose  he  offered  the  unspiritual  odor  of  a  stale 


252  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

tobacco  pipe;  my  normal  ear  could  hear  him 
breathe.  I  never  saw  a  man  with  fewer  ghostly 
qualities. 

"Nonsense!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Well,  now,"  said  John  Wiggins,  frankly,  "I 
admit  I  didn't  bring  no  written  testimonials  with 
me.  Truth  is,  I  couldn't  git  them  to  give  me  any. 
I  asked  for  some,  but  they  refused.  You  see,  I've 
got  a  bad  leg." 

He  stuck  his  left  leg  straight  out  and  looked  at  it 
sadly.  'That's  the  feller,"  he  said  reproachfully. 
"That's  my  bum  leg.  I  can't  git  no  testimonial  until 
that  leg's  cured.  That  leg  has  got  a  bad  case  of 
inetherealization,  it  has,  and  that's  why  I've  got  to 
git  a  job  here.  I've  got  to  stay  here  and  work  until 
that  there  left  leg  etherealizes  proper.  That's  the 
prescription  I  got. 

"Old  Mrs.  Gibbs  I  used  to  work  for — she  was  a 
good  old  lady  and  done  her  duty,  and  she  ethereal- 
ized  complete  and  proper  when  her  time  come,  but 
I  didn't.  I  had  somethin'  on  my  conscience,  and  it 
settled  in  my  left  leg  and  that  leg  ain't  never  ethe- 
realized  to  this  day.  So  I  begun  to  look  up  what 
was  the  matter,  and  I  took  advice  on  it.  'Well,'  says 
Doc,  'you  must  have  done  some  crime/  But  I  hadn't, 
and  I  told  him  so.  Come  to  find  out,  it  was  the 
way  I  treated  poor  old  Mrs.  Gibbs  trie  last  year 
she  was  alive.  I  soldiered  on  her.  I  skimped  my 
work. 

"So  Doc  examined  my  left  leg  and  he  says  there's 
only  two  things  to  do.  One  was  to  have  the  leg 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


253 


amputated  and  go  around  all  the  rest  of  forever 
as  a  one-legged  ghost,  and  the  other  was  to  go 
back  to  the  place  I'd  loafed  and  put  in  the  time 
I'd  loafed,  and  do  the  things  I'd  not  done,  and  that 
would  cure  my  left  leg.  Doc  said  I'd  only  have  to 
put  in,  each  day,  the  time  I'd  loafed  the  similar 
day,  and  do  up  the  odd  jobs  I'd  left  undone.  So 
here  I  am." 

"Mr.  Wiggins,"  I  said  firmly,  when  he  had  fin- 
ished, "I  will  not  have  you  around  this  place !  I  do 
not  care  a  whit  whether  your  left  leg  etherealizes 
or  not.  But  this  I  do  know:  my  wife  is  deathly 
afraid  of  ghosts,  and  for  that  reason  I  do  not  want 
you  around  if  you  arc  a  ghost;  and  my  father  is 
going  to  attend  to  the  yard  and  would  resent  your 
presence,  so  I  do  not  want  you  around  if  you  are 
not  a  ghost.  I  do  not  believe  in  ghosts,  but  you  may, 
if  you  choose.  That  is  your  right.  But  if  I  find  you 
around  here  I  shall  treat  you  as  a  common  and 
obnoxious  human  being,  and  see  that  you  are  placed 
where  you  will  do  no  harm,  and  that  is  in  jail,  for 
trespass." 

I  expected  this  to  frighten  John  Wiggins  away, 
but  he  only  grinned. 

"It's  time  for  me  to  be  gitting  along,"  he  said, 
"but  I'll  start  in  to-morrow,  so  if  I  was  you  I 
wouldn't  worry  about  it." 

I  thought  best  to  humor  his  delusion.  I  could  ar- 
range to  have  a  policeman  at  the  house  the  next  day, 
and  that  would  settle  the  matter. 

"Very  well,"  I  said;    "but  let  me  ask  you  two 


254 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


favors.  My  wife  is  afraid  of  ghosts — do  not  let 
her  see  you ;  and  my  father  is  jealous  of  his  yard — 
do  not  let  him  see  you." 

John  Wiggins  thought  for  a  moment.  "All 
right,"  he  said  at  last,  "that's  fair  enough,  and  I'll 
make  a  bargain.  I'll  keep  out  of  their  way  if  you'll 
store  this  here  left  leg  of  mine  when  I  ain't  work- 
ing, and " 

Suddenly  John  Wiggins  turned  white  and  half 
rose  from  his  chair.  He  stared  at  the  door  behind 
me,  and  I  turned,  but  I  could  see  nothing.  I  heard 
Mary  McGuffy's  voice  calling  some  words  out  of 
the  kitchen  window  to  my  father. 

"All  roight,  sor,"  I  heard  her  say,  "Oi'll  ask 
Misther  Edgar." 

John  Wiggins  gasped  and  licked  his  dry  lips. 
"Gin — gin — ginger!"  he  managed  to  mutter.  "It's 
Mary — Mary  McGuffy — it's  my  old  sweetheart! 
And  she  always  was  afraid  of  ghosts!  I'm  going 

frk___" 

I  heard  Mary's  heavy  tread  in  the  hall,  and,  as 
I  looked  at  him,  John  Wiggins  rapidly  turned  into 
thin  white  air  and  vanished.  There  was  a  thud  on 
one  of  my  Turkish  rugs,  and  I  had  just  time,  before 
Mary  appeared,  to  drop  on  my  knees  and  wrap 
John  Wiggins's  unetherealized  left  leg  in  the  rug. 

Few  men,  I  imagine,  have  ever  had  occasion  to 
wrap  a  leg  in  a  rug,  and  those  who  have  probably 
chose  some  other  rug  than  a  stiff  Daghestan.  Had 
I  been  choosing  I  should  have  chosen  some  other 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


255 


rug  myself,  but  I  was  hurried.  I  had  to  act  in- 
stantly. No  man  wants  his  servant  to  enter  a 
room  and  see  him  standing  idly  before  an  unat- 
tached leg.  It  would  be  hard  to  account  for  such 
a  piece  of  property  in  any  event,  and  I  foresaw  that 
it  would  be  most  unpleasant  for  me  to  have  to  ex- 
plain to  a  superstitious  creature  like  Mary  that  what 
she  saw  was  the  leg  of  her  recent  sweetheart.  I 
could  not  stand  there  and,  with  apparent  indiffer- 
ence, say,  "Mary,  there  is  John  Wiggins's  leg. 
Take  it  away."  So  I  sat  down  and  rolled  the  leg 
in  the  rug.  It  made  an  awkward,  bulky  parcel,  and, 
as  it  had  a  tendency  to  unroll,  I  took  it  in  my  arms 
and  hugged  it. 

I  think  Mary  was  surprised  to  see  me  sitting  on 
the  parlor  floor  hugging  a  large  rolled-up  rug  as 
if  it  were  a  doll,  one  end  of  the  roll  on  my  lap,  and 
the  other  reclining  on  my  shoulder;  but  I  tried  to 
appear  as  if  this  were  necessary  work  in  fixing  up 
the  house.  Luckily,  moving  time  is  the  one  time 
when  a  dignified  man  can  sit  on  a  bare  floor  with 
legs  extended  and  hug  a  rug  without  being  con- 
sidered insane,  and  I  was  puzzled  that  Mary  showed 
any  surprise  at  all,  until  I  discovered  that  John  Wig- 
gins's boot  was  protruding  from  the  end  of  the 
roll  that  lay  against  my  cheek.  I  admit  that  Mary 
was  right  to  be  surprised.  Logically,  she  could  not 
understand  why,  when  there  was  so  much  work  to 
be  done,  I  should  wrap  a  boot  in  an  Oriental  rug 
and  sit  down  on  the  parlor  floor  and  nurse  it. 


256  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

When  Mary  went,  I  jumped  up  nimbly  and 
started  upstairs  with  the  rug. 

I  wrapped  John  Wiggins's  leg  in  manila  wrap- 
ping paper  and  tied  the  parcel  with  stout  twine.  On 
the  paper  I  wrote,  in  ink,  "Curtain  Rods  and  Fix- 
tures," and  stood  the  package  boldly  in  the  corner 
of  my  room.  It  was  safe  there.  Agnes  looked  at 
the  package  once  during  the  day,  but  when  she  read 
the  words  I  had  written  she  turned  away. 

The  next  morning  I  was  awakened  by  a  knock  on 
my  bedroom  door,  and  when  I  opened  it  I  found 
my  father,  in  his  bathrobe,  looking  displeased. 

"Edgar,"  he  said,  "there  is  a  man  in  the  back 
yard  cutting  the  grass.  Of  course,  if  you  want  a 
man  to  cut  the  grass,  I  have  nothing  to  say,  but  I 
thought  it  was  understood  that  the  grounds  were 
to  be  my  work.  And  if  it  is,  as  I  suppose,  some 
one  stealing  the  grass  for  his  horse,  he  shouldn't 
be  allowed  to  do  it." 

I  threw  on  my  bathrobe  and  went  into  his  room, 
where  a  window  commanded  the  back  yard.  In- 
stantly I  knew  John  Wiggins  had  come  back.  Even 
at  that  distance  I  could  recognize  the  wrapper  I 
had  put  around  his  left  leg,  and  I  thought  I  could 
make  out  the  words  "Curtain  Rods  and  Fixtures." 

"Father,"  I  said  with  pretended  anger,  "I  will 
soon  see  what  that  man  is  about !  I  never  heard  of 
such  impudence !"  I  hurried  out  to  where  John 
Wiggins  was  strenuously  swinging  a  scythe. 

"Hello,"   he   said   pleasantly,   when   he   saw   me. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  257 

"You  see  I  have  come  back,  like  I  said  I  would. 
Much  obliged  for  keeping  my  leg,  but  it  ain't  really 
necessary  to  take  so  much  trouble  with  it.  You  don't 
need  to  mind  to  wrap  it  up ;  it  won't  hurt  none  to  git 
a  little  dusty.  I'd  of  took  the  wrappers  off,  but  I 
ain't  got  much  time  to  make  up  to-day,  and  I  didn't 
want  to  waste  none.  You  see  they've  got  my 
schedule  all  laid  out,  day  for  day,  all  the  days  I 
loafed  any,  and  all  I  have  to  make  up  in  any  one 
day  is  what  time  I  loafed  on  the  correspondin'  day 
when — when  I  was  here  before." 

I  glanced  up  and  saw  my  father  looking  at  us 
from  his  window,  and  I  began  to  speak  to  John 
Wiggins  in  a  violent  manner. 

"I  see  you  didn't  git  no  sickle,  like  I  told  you  to," 
he  said  reproachfully.  "I  had  to  go  over  next  door 
and  sort  of  borry  this  scythe  without  sayin'  nothin' 
to  nobody  about  it.  I  guess  you'd  better  git 

At  that  instant  John  Wiggins  faded  gently  away 
and  left  me  standing  before  his  fallen  scythe  and 
his  left  leg.  He  had  made  up  his  time  for  that 
day.  I  looked  guiltily  toward  the  window;  my 
father  was  gone.  I  gathered  up  the  leg  and  hurried 
into  the  house  with  it,  and  managed  to  hide  it  in 
the  low  closet  in  the  butler's  pantry  before  my 
father  came  down. 

"I  settled  that  pretty  quick !"  I  said.  "I  sent  him 
about  his  business.  If  you  see  him  about  here 
again,  let  me  know.  And  I  wish,  after  breakfast, 
you  would  take  that  scythe  home.  The  fellow 


258  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

took  it,  without  permission,  from  the  house  next 
door.  Explain  it."  I  thought  I  had  better  let  my 
father  do  the  explaining,  because  I  was  afraid  I 
might  explain  a  little  too  much  if  I  tried  it  myself. 
My  nerves  were  upset. 

Early  the  next  morning  I  was  up  and  dressed, 
ready  to  go  down  the  moment  John  Wiggins 
appeared.  But  he  did  not  appear!  All  that  day 
his  leg  lay  dormant  in  my  closet.  When,  the  next 
morning,  he  still  did  not  come  back,  I  could  hardly 
contain  myself.  I  shut  myself  in  my  study  and 
paced  the  floor,  and  I  was  near  a  nervous  break- 
down when  my  closet  door  opened  and  John  Wig- 
gins stepped  out.  It  was  ten  minutes  to  twelve. 

He  stood  before  me  and  smiled.  "Well,  how're 
you  feelin'  to-day?"  he  asked.  "I've  got  a  little 
job  to  do  in  this  room,  an'  if  you'll  tell  me  where  I 
can  find  a  hammer  and  a  big  nail  I  won't  trouble 
you  to  git  them.  I've  got  to  put  a  nail  into  the 
wall  right  up  there  where  that  picture  is." 

"You  will  not!"  I  declared.  ''I  have  just  had 
this  room  papered,  and  I  will  not  have  any 
nails " 

"Sorry,"  he  said,  "but  I've  got  to  put  a  nail  in. 
Old  Mrs.  Gibbs  she  told  me  to  one  day,  and  I  didn't 
do  it,  and  now  I've  got  to." 

I  got  the  nails  and  the  hammer  for  him,  and  he 
stood  on  a  chair  and  removed  the  picture.  He 
handed  it  to  me,  and  I  stood  holding  it  as  he  drove 
the  big  nail  just  where  I  did  not  want  any  nail  to 


FOR  READIXG  AXD  SPEAKING.  259 

be.  I  saw  the  plaster  crack  as  the  nail  went  in, 
and  I  knew  it  would  make  a  bad  hole  when  I  pulled 
the  nail  out  again.  I  asked  if  I  had  the  right  to 
remove  it  when  he'd  finished. 

"Why,  cert,"  he  said  good-naturedly.  "All  I've 
got  to  do  is  what  I  left  undone  when " 

At  the  last  blow  of  the  hammer  John  Wiggins 
vanished  and  his  left  leg  toppled  off  the  chair.  I 
caught  it  just  in  time  to  receive  the  falling  hammer 
on  the  back  of  my  head.  A  couple  of  nails  John 
Wiggins  had  been  holding  clattered  to  the  floor,  but 
I  did  not  hear  them,  for  the  hammer  had  stunned 
me.  When  I  regained  consciousness  I  was  lying 
on  my  bed,  and  Agnes  was  bending  over  me. 

"Edgar,"  she  exclaimed,  "what  were  you  trying 
to  do?  Why  did  you  drive  that  nail  into  the  new 
wall-paper  ?  What  were  you  doing  with  that  bundle 
of  curtain  rods  ?" 

"The  curtain  rods!"  I  cried  wildly.  "What  did 
you  do  with  the  curtain  rods?" 

"Now  lie  down,"  she  urged,  pushing  me  back. 
"Don't  worry  about  those  old  curtain  rods.  I  had 
Mary  put  them  in  the  closet  of  her  room,  out  of 
the  way  until  next  fall." 

That  instant  a  wild  scream  came  from  the  floor 
above,  followed  by  the  thud  of  a  heavy  body  bounc- 
ing from  step  to  step,  and  a  crash  as  the  door  at 
the  foot  of  the  servants'  stairs  burst  open.  From  my 
bed  I  could  see  Mary  on  the  floor  at  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs,  rubbing  the  back  of  her  head.  Her 


20O  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

face  was  white,  and  her  eyes  were  staring,  and  she 
was  breathing  hard.  Instinct  told  me  that  John 
Wiggins  had  come  back  to  do  some  little  odd  job 
in  the  garret,  and  had  met  Mary ;  and  I  had  no  heart 
to  scold  her  for  coming  downstairs  so  carelessly. 
Any  girl  would  be  surprised  if,  on  opening  a  closet 
door,  her  late  deceased  lover  should  step  out,  with 
one  leg  done  up  in  manila  paper. 

Agnes  had  rushed  to  Mary,  but  when  Mary  was 
able  to  speak  she  shut  her  lips  tightly.  I  saw  there 
was  no  danger  of  her  saying  anything  about  John 
Wiggins.  She  was  superstitious,  but  she  had  a 
natural  dread  of  ridicule.  As  soon  as  Agnes  was 
sure  Mary  had  broken  no  bones,  she  went  down- 
stairs, and  I  heard  Mary  go  up  to  her  room.  In  a 
few  moments  I  saw  her  come  down  again  with  the 
bundle  labelled  "Curtain  Rods  and  Fixtures."  I 
was  not  surprised  to  see  her  carry  it  into  the  bath- 
room and  throw  it  out  of  the  window  into  the 
middle  of  a  large  lilac  bush.  Ordinarily  I  should 
have  spoken  to  Mary  in  no  mild  tone  about  treating 
a  bundle  of  curtain  rods  and  fixtures  in  that  way, 
but  I  said  nothing. 

I  dressed  hurriedly  and  hastened  downstairs,  but 
.1  was  too  late.  My  father  had  already  rescued  the 
package  from  the  depths  of  the  lilac  bush,  and  as 
I  peered  cautiously  from  the  back-parlor  window  I 
saw  him  carrying  it  toward  the  barn.  He  had  it 
tucked  under  his  arm,  and  he  was  half-way  across 
the  yard  when  John  Wiggins  appeared  suddenly  ,on 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  26l 

the  end  of  his  left  leg.  He  was  in  an  awkward  and 
uncomfortable  position,  and  as  he  stood  facing  my 
father  he  had  to  hop  up  and  down  on  his  right  leg 
to  maintain  his  balance.  He  might  have  had  a  bad 
fall  had  my  father  not  instantly  released  his  hold 
on  John  Wiggins's  left  leg.  But  he  did  release 
it  instantly.  No  one  could  have  released  anything 
more  quickly  in  any  circumstances. 

John  Wiggins  immediately  began  talking  to  my 
father  in  his  usual  good-natured  way,  but  I  could 
see  that  my  father  had  no  desire  for  conversation. 
He  seemed  distraught,  and,  after  standing  a  few 
minutes  in  absolute  silence,  he  walked  to  the  house, 
went  to  his  room,  and  locked  his  door.  For  months 
my  father  remained  in  a  dazed  condition.  He 
never  said  anything  to  me  or  to  Agnes  about  it, 
but  I  could  see  that  he  was  worried.  He  used  to 
linger  near  John  Wiggins,  and  when  he  disappeared 
my  father  would  sigh  and  pick  up  the  left  leg  and 
carry  it  meekly  to  the  barn.  If  John  Wiggins  had 
been  a  child,  and  his  left  leg  had  Veen  his  toys,  and 
my  father  had  been  a  nursemaid,  my  father  could 
not  have  gathered  up  alter  John  Wiggins  more 
faithfully  and  patiently  than  he  did.  He  never 
uttered  a  word  of  reproach,  although  John  Wiggins 
was  most  disorderly  in  the  way  in  which  he  would 
go  off  and  leave  his  leg  here  and  there.  And  Mary 
would  watch  my  father  gather  up  the  leg  and  carry 
it  away  without  a  word.  She  pretended  that  she 
did  not  see  it;  and  sometimes,  when  John  Wiggins 


262'  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

etherealized  in  the  kitchen,  Mary  would  carry  the 
left  leg  to  my  father  and  give  it  to  him,  but  she 
never  admitted  that  it  was  John  Wiggins's  left 
leg — she  always  said,  "Here's  them  currtin  rods." 

What  worried  me  most  was  the  fear  that  Agnes 
might  see  John  Wiggins  and  understand  what  he 
was.  I  dreaded  the  effect  on  her  tender  nerves 
should  she  see  John  Wiggins  suddenly  appear  on 
the  end  of  the  bundle  of  curtain  rods,  or  should  she 
see  him  as  suddenly  melt  into  thin  air.  I  could  not 
understand  how  she  could  see  a  man  cutting  our 
grass,  with  one  leg  done  up  in  manila  paper,  and 
not  think  it  odd. 

So  things  went  on  from  bad  to  worse.  I  had  to 
buy  the  old  Gibbs  horse,  the  old  Gibbs  buggy,  and 
many  more  things  for  John  Wiggins  to  work  on. 
One  day  my  wife  came  into  my  room.  "Edgar," 
she  said  severely,  "I  have  a  confession  to  make. 
For  over  a  year  this  house  has  been  haunted,  and 
I  knew  it  all  the  while !  And  I  knew  that  you 
knew  it.  Oh,"  she  said  quickly,  as  I  opened  my 
mouth  to  speak,  "I  know  I've  done  wrong,  but  I 
did  not  know  it  at  the  time.  I  saw  that  you  were 
laboring  with  the  trouble,  and  I  did  not  like  to 
worry  you  additionally  by  letting  you  know  I  was 
worried,  too.  But  the  last  month  you  have  been 
growing  more  and  more  depressed,  and  I  felt  it 
my  duty  to  do  what  a  woman  could  do." 

"Agnes,"  I  cried,  "what  could  you  do?" 

"I  watched,"  she  said.  "I  felt  that  the  future  of 
us  all  depended  on  me,  and  that  made  me  brave. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  263 

I  saw  how  your  poor  father  was  gathering  up  John 
Wiggins's  leg  day  after  day  so  meekly  and  uncom- 
plainingly ;  how  Mary  was  doing  her  work  in  spite 
of  the  care  she  had  on  her  mind,  and  how  your 
bank  account  was  dwindling  to  nothing  to  supply 
John  Wiggins " 

"You  know  his  name?"  I  exclaimed. 

"Indeed,  yes,"  she  said.  "You  talk  in  your  sleep, 
Edgar.  But  I  know  more  than  that.  I  know  that 
John  Wiggins  never  worked  for  Mrs.  Gibbs." 

"He  was  a  lazy  fellow,"  I  admitted. 

"He  never  worked  for  her  at  all,"  said  Agnes, 
and  while  I  stared  at  her  she  continued,  "Do  you 
know  where  his  left  leg  is  ?" 

I  thought  I  did.  I  said  my  father  kept  it  on  a 
shelf  in  the  barn.  Agnes,  in  two  words,  ordered 
me  to  get  it.  I  hurried  to  the  barn  and  brought 
back  the  manila  package  to  her.  With  a  few  quick 
snips  of  the  scissors  she  opened  the  package.  There 
was  nothing  in  it  but  an  old  shoe  and  some  rolls  of 
rags. 

"There !"  she  exclaimed.  "And  the  same  was  in 
the  package  at  Mr.  Gray's  and  at  Mr.  Overman's 
and  at  Mr.  Gerster's.  At  Mr.  Long's  there  is  the 
same.  John  Wiggins  has  been  at  Mr.  Long's  only 
a  week.  Mr.  Gerster  has  just  bought  a  horse  of 
Ike  Wiggins.  Mr.  Overman  has  just  bought  a 
buggy.  Mr.  Gray  has  just  bought  a  flag  pole  from 
Ike  Wggins.  All  of  them  live  in  houses  where 
recent  occupants  have  died." 

"Agnes!"  I  exclaimed. 


264  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"All  of  them,"  she  repeated.  "And  to  all  of 
them  John  Wiggins  has  told  the  same  story.  He  is 
the  most  disreputable,  mean,  dishonest  ghost  I  ever 
heard  of.  Pie  has  robbed  all  of  us,  and  if  I  hadn't 
disliked  the  look  of  his  eye  he  would  still  be  robbing 
us." 

When  she  had  said  this  she  paused,  and  for  some 
time  I  thought  deeply.  "Agnes,"  I  said  at  length, 
"I  have  never  had  much  faith  in  ghosts — 

"And  I  shall  never  believe  in  one  again,"  she  said. 

"That  is  right,"  I  said;  "they  do  not  deserve  to 
be  believed  in.  But  now  that  we  know  the  true 
character  of  John  Wiggins's  ghost,  how  are  we  to 
get  rid  of  him  ?  You  are  sure  you  do  not  believe  in 
ghosts?" 

"Not  now.  I  did  once,  Edgar,  but  since  I  have 
met  John  Wiggins's  ghost  I  do  not.  He  is  beyond 
belief." 

"He  is,"  I  said.  "If  I  let  myself  be  fooled  into 
believing  in  him,  it  was  only  because  he  had  such 
good  proof.  He  left  a  leg  with  me.  But  now  I 
have  no  leg  of  a  ghost,  I  do  not  believe  in  ghosts. 
Ghosts  exist  for  their  believers  only.  And  I  am 
sure  my  father  has  seen  too  much  of  John  Wiggins 
to  believe  in  him.  The  only  doubtful  person  is 
Mary." 

"If  Mary  believes  in  ghosts  she  must  go!"  said 
Agnes  firmly.  "We  cannot  have  a  ghost  hanging 
around  the  house  just  because  a  servant  believes  in 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


265 


I  went  down  to  interview  Mary,  and,  though  I 
would  have  been  loath  to  lose  such  a  good  maid,  I 
was  fully  decided  to  discharge  her  at  once  if  she 
believed  in  John  Wiggins.  But  I  found  she  did 
not.  She  admitted  that  she  had  at  first,  but  lately 
she  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  fishman,  and  she 
assured  me  that  since  then  she  had  entirely  dis- 
believed in  John  Wiggins.  This  made  my  task 
easier,  and  I  prepared  to  receive  John  Wiggins  as 
he  deserved  to  be  received. 

He  came  next  morning  about  eleven  o'clock — 
yesterday  morning — and  I  met  him  in  the  yard.  He 
was  as  self-possessed  as  ever,  and  as  smiling,  and 
he  wore  the  manila  paper  wrapper  just  as  he  had 
always  worn  it,  for  I  had  been  careful  to  put  it  in 
its  usual  place  in  the  barn. 

"Well,"  he  said  heartily,  "I  guess  you'll  have  to 
git  an  automobile,  I  guess  you  will.  I  never  tended 
to  Mrs.  Gibbs's  automobile  the  way  I  ought  to  have, 
and  brother  Ike  has  it.  I  guess  you  can  buy  it 
from " 

"Stop!"  I  said  imperiously.  "This  h.as  gone  too 
far.  You  can  fool  me  a  while,  but  not  forever.  I 
no  longer  believe  in  ghosts.  You  have  long  ago 
worked  your  leg  out  of  inetherealization.  Get  out 
of  here!" 

For  answer  he  only  grinned,  and  rubbed  his 
manila  package  where  it  was  marked  "Curtain  Rods 
and  Fixtures."  Had  I  entertained  any  doubts — 
had  I  imagined  there  was  a  real  leg  in  the  package, 


266  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

I  must  even  then  have  suffered  defeat,  but  I  myself 
had  filled  the  package  with  gunpowder.  I  threw 
myself  at  the  left  leg  with  such  skill  and  agility  as 
I  had  left  from  my  old  football  tackle  days,  and 
wrenched  the  leg  from  John  Wiggins.  As  I  had 
expected,  another  leg  stood  in  its  place,  but  even 
as  John  Wiggins  grappled  with  me  I  made  a  back- 
ward pass  of  the  package  and  tossed  it  to  my  father, 
who  struck  a  match  and  touched  it  to  the  paper. 
Instantly  there  was  a  flash,  and  all  the  proof  we 
had  that  there  was  such  a  ghost  as  John  Wiggins 
disappeared  in  a  cloud  of  blue  smoke  and  faded 
away;  but  not  before  Agnes  had  caught  a  snap 
shot  of  it,  showing  that  both  legs  were  now  ethe- 
realized. 


Grampy  Sings  a  Song. 
HOLM  AN  F.  DAY. 

ROW-DIDDY,  dow  de,  my  little  sis, 
Hush  up  your  teasin'  and  listen  to  this : 
'Tain't  much  of  a  jingle,  'tain't  much  of  a  tune, 
But  it's  spang-fired  truth  about  Chester  Cahoon. 
The  thund'rinest  fireman  Lord  ever  made 
Was  Chester  Cahoon  of  the  Tuttsville  Brigade. 
He  was  boss  of  the  tub  and  the  foreman  of  hose; 
When  the  'larm  rung  he'd  start,  sis,  a-sheddin'  his 

clothes, — 
Slung  coat  and  slung  wes'coat  and  kicked  off  his 

shoes, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  267 

A-running'  like  fun,  for  he'd  no  time  to  lose. 
And  he'd  howl  down  the  ro'd  in  a  big  cloud  of  dust, 
For  he  made  it  his  brag  he  was  allus  there  fust. 
Allus  there  fust,  with  a  whoop  and  a  shout, 
And  he  never  shut  up  till  the  fire  was  out. 
And  he'd  knock  out  the  winders  and  save  all  the 

doors, 

And  tear  off  the  clapboards,  and  rip  up  the  floors, 
For  he  allus  allowed  'twas  a  tarnation  sin 
To  'low  'em  to  burn,  for  you'd  want  'em  agin. 
He  gen'rally  stirred  up  the  most  of  his  touse 
In  hustling  to  save  the  outside  of  the  house. 
And  after  he'd  wrassled  and  hollered  and  pried, 
He'd  let  up  and  tackle  the  stuff  'twas  inside. 
To  see  him  you'd  think  he  was  daft  as  a  loon, 
But  that  was  just  habit  with  Chester  Cahoon. 
Row  diddy-iddy,  my  little  sis, 
Now  see  what  ye  think  of  a  doin'  like  this: 
The  time  of  the  fire  at  Jenkins'  old  place — 
It  got  a  big  start — was  a  desprit  case ; 
The  fambly  they  didn't  know  which  way  to  turn, 
And  by  gracious  it  looked  like  it  was  all  to  burn. 
But  Chester  Cahoon — oh,  that  Chester  Cahoon, 
He  sailed  to  the  roof  like  a  reg'lar  balloon ; 
Donno  how  he  done  it,  but  done  it  he  did, — 
Went  down  through  the  scuttle  and  shet  down  the 

lid. 

And  five  minutes  later  that  critter  he  came 
To  the  second-floor  winder  surrounded  by  flame. 
He  lugged  in  his  arms,  sis,  a  stove  and  a  bed, 


268  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

And  balanced  a  bureau  right  square  on  his  head. 
His  hands  they  was  loaded  with  crockery  stuff, 
China  and  glass;  as  if  that  warn't  enough, 
He'd    rolls   of   big   quilts    round    his   neck   like   a 

wreath, 

And  carried  Mis'  Jenkins'  old  aunt  with  his  teeth. 
You're   right — gospel   right,  little   sis — didn't  seem 
The  critter'd  git  down,  but  he  called  for  the  stream, 
And  when  it  come,  strong  and  big  round  as  my 

wrist, 

He  stuck  out  his  legs,  sis,  and  give  'em  a  twist ; 
And  he  hooked  round  the  water  jes'  if  'twas  a  rope, 
And  clown  he  come,  easin'  himself  on  the  slope, — 
So  almighty  spry  that  he  made  that  'ere  stream 
As  fit  for  his  pupp'us  as  if  'twas  a  beam. 
Oh,  the  thuncT finest  fireman  Lord  ever  made 
Was  Chester  Cahoon  of  the  Tuttsville  Brigade. 


The  Great  Pancake  Record. 
OWEN  JOHNSON. 

A  cutting  from  "The  Eternal  Boy,"  a  book  of  Law- 
renceville  School  stories.  Copyright,  1909,  by  Dodd,  Mead 
&.  Co.  Reprinted  by  permission. 

LITTLE  Smeed,  his  hat  askew,  his  collar  rolled  up, 
his  bag  at  his  feet,  stood  in  the  road,  alone  in  the 
world,  miserable  and  thoroughly  frightened.  One 
path  led  to  the  silent,  hostile  group  on  the  steps, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  269 

another  went  in  safety  to  the  master's  entrance. 
He  picked  up  his  bag  hastily. 

"Hello,  you — over  there!" 

Smeed  understood  it  was  a  command.  He  turned 
submissively  and  approached  with  embarrassed 
steps.  Face  to  face  with  these  superior  beings, 
tanned  and  muscular,  stretched  in  Olympian  atti- 
tudes, he  realized  all  at  once  the  hopelessness  of  his 
ever  daring  to  associate  with  such  demi-gods.  Still 
he  stood,  shifting  from  foot  to  foot,  eyeing  the 
steps,  waiting  for  the  solemn  ordeal  of  examination 
and  classification  to  be  over. 

''Well,  Hungry — what's  your  name?" 

Smeed  comprehended  that  the  future  was  decided, 
and  that  to  the  grave  he  would  go  down  as  "Hun- 
gry" Smeed.  With  a  sigh  of  relief  he  answered : 

"Smeed — John  Smeed." 

"Sir!" 

"Sir." 

"How  old?" 

"Fifteen." 

"Sir!" 

"Sir." 

"What  do  you  weigh?" 

"One  hundred  and  six — sir !" 

A  grim  silence  succeeded  this  depressing  informa- 
tion. Then  some  one  in  the  back,  as  a  mere  matter 
of  form,  asked: 

"Never  played  football?" 

"No,  sir." 


270  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"Baseball?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Anything  on  track  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Sing?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Smeed,  humbly. 

"Do  anything  at  all?" 

Little  Smeed  glanced  at  the  eaves  where  the  swal- 
lows were  swaying  and  then  down  at  the  soft 
couch  of  green  at  his  feet  and  answered  faintly : 

"No,  sir — I'm  afraid  not." 

Another  silence  came,  then  some  one  said,  in  a 
voice  of  deepest  conviction: 

"A  dead  loss !" 

Smeed  went  sadly  into  the  house. 

At  the  door  he  lingered  long  enough  to  hear  the 
chorus  burst  out : 

"A  fine  football  team  we'll  have!" 

"It's  a  put-up  job!" 

"They  don't  want  us  to  win  the  championship 
again— that's  it !" 

"I  say,  we  ought  to  kick." 

Then,  after  a  little,  the  same  deep  voice: 

"A  dead  loss!" 

With  each  succeeding  week  Hungry  Smeed  com- 
prehended more  fully  the  enormity  of  his  offence 
in  doing  nothing  and  weighing  one  hundred  and  six 
pounds.  He  saw  the  new  boys  arrive,  pass  through 
the  fire  of  christening,  give  respectable  weights  and 
go  forth  to  the  gridiron  to  be  whipped  into  shape 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


271 


by  Turkey  and  the  Butcher,  who  played  on  the 
school  eleven.  Smeed  humbly  and  thankfully  went 
down  each  afternoon  to  the  practice,  carrying  the 
sweaters  and  shin-guards,  like  the  grateful  little 
beast  of  burden  that  he  was.  He  watched  his 
juniors,  Spider  and  Red  Dog,  rolling  in  the  mud  or 
flung  gloriously  under  an  avalanche  of  bodies;  but 
then,  they  weighed  over  a  hundred  and  thirty,  while 
he  was  still  at  one  hundred  and  six — a  dead  loss ! 
The  fever  of  house  loyalty  invaded  him;  he  even 
came  to  look  with  resentment  on  the  Faculty  and 
to  repeat  secretly  to  himself  that  they  never  would 
have  unloaded  him  on  the  Dickinson  if  they  hadn't 
been  willing  to  stoop  to  any  methods  to  prevent 
the  House  again  securing  the  championship. 

The  fact  that  the  Dickinson,  in  an  extraordinary 
manner,  finally  won  by  the  closest  of  margins,  con- 
soled Smeed  but  a  little  while.  There  were  no  more 
sweaters  to  carry,  or  pails  of  barley  water  to  fetch, 
or  guard  to  be  mounted  on  the  old  rail-fence,  to 
make  certain  that  the  spies  from  the  Davis  and  Ken- 
nedy did  not  surprise  the  secret  plays  which  Hickey 
and  Slugger  Jones  had  craftily  evolved. 

With  the  long  winter  months  he  felt  more  keenly 
his  obscurity  and  the  hopelessness  of  ever  leaving  a 
mark  on  the  great  desert  of  school  life  that  would 
bring  honor  to  the  Dickinson.  He  resented  even 
the  lack  of  the  mild  hazing  the  other  boys  received 
— he  was  too  insignificant  to  be  so  honored.  He  was 
only  a  "dead  loss,"  good  for  nothing  but  to  squeeze 


272  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

through  his  recitations,  to  sleep  enormously,  and  to 
eat  like  a  glutton  with  a  hunger  that  could  never 
be  satisfied,  little  suspecting  the  future  that  lay  in 
this  famine  of  his  stomach. 

For  it  was  written  in  the  inscrutable  fates  that 
Hungry  Smeed  should  leave  a  name  that  would  go 
down  imperishably  to  decades  of  schoolboys,  when 
Dibble's  touchdown  against  Princeton  and  Kafe's 
home  run  should  be  only  tinkling  sounds.  So  it 
happened,  and  the  agent  of  this  divine  destiny  was 
Hickey. 

Conover's  was  not  in  the  catalogue  that  anxious 
parents  study,  but  then  catalogues  are  like  epitaphs 
in  a  cemetery.  Next  to  the  jigger-shop,  Conover's 
was  quite  the  most  important  institution  in  the 
school.  In  a  little  white  Colonial  cottage,  Conover, 
veteran  of  the  late  war,  and  Mrs.  Conover,  still  in 
active  service,  supplied  pancakes  and  maple  syrup 
on  a  cash  basis,  two  dollars  credit  to  second-year 
boys  in  good  repute.  Conover's  had  its  traditions. 
Twenty-six  pancakes,  large  and  thick,  in  one  con- 
tinuous sitting,  was  the  record,  five  years  old,  stand- 
ing to  the  credit  of  Guzzler  Wilkins,  which  succeed- 
ing classes  had  attacked  in  vain.  Wily  Conover,  to 
stimulate  such  profitable  tests,  had  solemnly  pledged 
himself  to  the  delivery  of  free  pancakes  to  all 
comers  during  that  day  on  which  any  boy,  at  a 
continuous  sitting,  unaided,  should  succeed  in  swal- 
lowing the  awful  number  of  thirty-two.  Conover 
was  not  considered  a  prodigal. 

It  was  Wednesday,  and  the  following  Saturday 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  273 

was  decided  upon  for  the  supreme  test  at  Conover's. 
Smeed  at  once  was  subjected  to  a  graduated  system 
of  starvation.  Thursday  he  was  hungry,  but  Fri- 
day he  was  so  ravenous  that  a  watch  was  instituted 
on  all  his  movements. 

The  next  morning  the  Dickinson  House,  let  into 
the  secret,  accompanied  Smeed  to  Conover's.  If 
there  was  even  a  possibility  of  free  pancakes,  the 
House  intended  to  be  satisfied  before  the  deluge 
broke. 

Great  was  the  astonishment  at  Conover's  at  the 
arrival  of  the  procession. 

"Mr.  Conover,"  said  Hickey,  in  the  quality  of 
manager,  "we're  going  after  that  pancake  record." 

"Mr.  Wilkins'  record?"  said  Conover,  seeking 
vainly  the  champion  in  the  crowd. 

"Xo — after  that  record  of  yours,"  answered 
Hickey.  "Thirty-two  pancakes — we're  here  to  get 
free  pancakes  to-day — that's  what  we're  here  for." 

"So,  boys,  so,"  said  Conover,  smiling  pleasantly; 
"and  you  want  to  begin  right  now  ?" 

"Right  off  the  bat." 

"Well,  where  is  he?" 

Little  Smeed,  famished  to  the  point  of  tears,  was 
thrust  forward.  Conover,  who  was  expecting  some- 
thing on  the  lines  of  a  buffalo,  smiled  confidently. 

"So,  boys,  so,"  he  said,  leading  the  way  with 
alacrity.  "I  guess  we're  ready,  too." 

"Thirty-two  pancakes,  Conover — and  we  get  'cm 
free !" 

"That's  right,"  answered  Conover,  secure  in  his 


274  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

knowledge  of  boyish  capacity.  "If  that  little  boy 
there  can  eat  thirty-two  I'll  make  'em  all  day  free  to 
the  school.  That's  what  I  said,  and  what  I  say 
goes — and  that's  what  I  say  now." 

Hickey  and  Doc  Macnooder  whispered  the  last 
instructions  in  Smeed's  ear. 

"Cut  out  the  syrup." 

"Loosen  your  belt." 

"Eat  slowly." 

"I'll  keep  count,"  said  Hickey.  "Macnooder  and 
Turkey,  watch  the  pancakes." 

"Regulation  size,  Conover;  no  doubling  now. 
All  fair  and  above-board." 

"All  right,  Hickey,  all  right,"  said  Conover,  leer- 
ing wickedly  from  the  door.  "If  that  little  grass- 
hopper can  do  it,  you  get  the  cakes." 

"Now,  Hungry,"  said  Turkey,  clapping  Smeed 
on  the  shoulder,  "here  is  where  you  get  your  chance. 
.Remember,  Kid,  old  sport,  it's  for  the  Dickinson." 

Smeed  heard  in  ecstasy;  it  was  just  the  way  Tur- 
key talked  to  the  eleven  on  the  eve  of  a  match.  He 
nodded  his  head  with  a  grim  little  shake  and  smiled 
nervously  at  the  thirty-odd  Dickinsonians  who 
formed  around  him  a  pit  of  expectant  and  hungry 
boyhood  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling. 

"All  ready !"  sang  out  Turkey,  from  the  doorway. 

"Six  pancakes !" 

"Six  it  is,"  replied  Hickey,  chalking  up  a  monster 
6  on  the  slate  that  swung  from  the  rafters.  The 
pancakes  placed  before  the  ravenous  Smeed  van- 
ished like  snow-flakes  on  a  July  lawn. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  27$ 

A  cheer  went  up  mingled  with  cries  of  caution. 

"Not  so  fast." 

"Take  your  time." 

"Don't  let  them  be  too  hot." 

"Not  too  hot,  Hickey !" 

Macnooder  was  instructed  to  watch  carefully  over 
the  temperature  as  well  as  the  dimensions. 

"Ready  again,"  came  the  cry. 

"Ready — how  many?" 

"Six  more." 

"Six  it  is,"  said  Hickey,  adding  a  second  figure 
to  the  score.  "Six  and  six  is  twelve." 

The  second  batch  went  the  way  of  the  first. 

"Why,  that  boy  is  starving,"  said  Conover,  open- 
ing his  eyes. 

"Sure  he  is,"  said  Hickey.  "He's  eating  'way 
back  in  last  week — he  hasn't  had  a  thing  for  ten 
days." 

"Six  more,"  cried  Macnooder. 

"Six  it  is,"  answered  Hickey.  "Six  and  twelve  is 
eighteen." 

"Eat  them  one  at  a  time,  Hungry." 

"No,  let  him  alone." 

"He  knows  best." 

"Not  too  fast,  Hungry,  not  too  fast." 

"Eighteen   for  Hungry,  eighteen.     Hurrah!" 

"Thirty-two  is  a  long  ways  to  go,"  said  Conover, 
gazing  apprehensively  at  the  little  David  who  had 
come  so  impudently  into  his  domain;  "fourteen 
pancakes  is  an  awful  lot." 


276  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"Shut  up,  Conover." 

"No  trying  to  influence  him  there." 

"Don't  listen  to  him,  Hungry." 

"He's  only  trying  to  get  you  nervous." 

"Fourteen  more,  Hungry — fourteen  more." 

"Ready  again,"  sang  out  Macnooder. 

"Ready  here." 

"Three  pancakes." 

"Three  it  is,"  responded  Hickey.  "Eighteen  and 
three  is  twenty-one." 

But  a  storm  of  protest  arose. 

"Here,  that's  not  fair !" 

"I  say,  Hickey,  don't  let  them  do  that." 

"I  say,  Hickey,  it's  twice  as  hard  that  way." 

"Oh,  go  on." 

"Sure  it  is." 

"Six  at  a  time!" 

"Coming  again !" 

"All  ready  here." 

"Six  pancakes !" 

"Six,"  said  Hickey;  "twenty-one  and  six  is 
twenty-seven." 

"That'll  beat  Guzzler  Wilkins." 

"So  it  will." 

"Five  more  makes  thirty-two." 

"Easy,  Hungry,  easy." 

"Hungry's  done  it,  he's  done  it !" 

"Twenty-seven  and  the  record!" 

"Hurrah!" 

At  this  point  Smeed  looked  about  anxiously. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


277 


"It's  pretty  dry,"  he  said,  speaking  for  the  first 
time. 

Instantly  there  was  a  panic.  Smeed  was  reaching 
his  limit — a  groan  went  up. 

"Oh,  Hungry!" 

"Only  five  more." 

"Give  him  some  water." 

"Water,  you  loon;   do  you  want  to  end  him?" 

"Why?"' 

"Water'll  swell  up  the  pancakes,  crazy." 

"No  water,  no  water." 

Hickey  approached  his  man  with  some  anxiety. 

"What  is  it,  Hungry?  Anything  wrong?"  he 
said  tenderly. 

"No,  only  it's  a  little  dry,"  said  Smeed,  unmoved. 
"I'm  all  right,  but  I'd  like  just  a  drop  of  syrup 
now." 

The  syrup  was  discussed,  approved,  and  voted. 

"You're  sure  you're  all  right  ?"  said  Hickey. 

"Oh,  yes." 

Conover,  in  the  last  ditch,  said  carefully: 

"I  don't  want  no  fits  around  here." 

A  cry  of  protest  greeted  him. 

"Well,  son,  that  boy  can't  stand  much  more. 
That's  just  like  the  Guzzler.  He  was  taken  short 
and  we  had  to  work  over  him  for  an  hour." 

"Conover,  shut  up!" 

"Conover,  you're  beaten." 

"Conover,  that's  an  old  game!" 

"Get  dut!" 


278  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"Shut  up !" 

"Fair  play!" 

"Fair  play!     Fair  play!" 

A  new  interruption  came  from  the  kitchen.  Mac- 
nooder  claimed  that  Mrs.  Conover  was  doubling  the 
size  of  the  cakes.  The  dish  was  brought.  There 
was  no  doubt  of  it.  The  cakes  were  swollen.  Pan- 
demonium broke  loose.  Conover  capitulated,  the 
cakes  were  rejected. 

"Don't  be  feazed  by  that,"  said  Hickey  warningly 
to  Smeed. 

"Fm  not,"  said  Smeed. 

"All  ready,"  came  Macnooder's  cry. 

"Ready  here." 

"Six  pancakes !" 

"Regulation  size?" 

"Regulation." 

"Six  it  is,"  said  Hickey,  at  the  slate.  "Six  and 
twenty-seven  is  thirty-three." 

"Wait  a  moment,"  sang  out  the  Butcher.  "He 
has  only  to  eat  thirty-two." 

"That's  so— take  one  off." 

"Give  him  five,  Hickey — five  only." 

"If  Hungry  says  he  can  eat  six,"  said  Hickey, 
firmly,  glancing  at  his  protege,  "he  can.  We're  out 
for  big  things.  Can  you  do  it,  Hungry?" 

And  Smeed,  fired  with  the  heroism  of  the 
moment,  answered  in  disdainful  simplicity: 

"Sure!" 

A  cheer  that  brought  two  Davis  House  boys  run- 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


279 


ning  in  greeted  the  disappearance  of  the  thirty- 
third.  Then  everything  was  forgotten  in  the  amaze- 
ment of  the  deed. 

"Please,  I'd  like  to  go  on,"  said  Smeed. 

"Oh,  Hungry,  can  you  do  it  ?" 

"Really?" 

"You're  goin'  on?" 

"Holy  cats !" 

"How'll  you  take  them?"  asked  Hickey  anxiously. 

"I'll  try  another  six,"  said  Smeed,  thoughtfully, 
"and  then  we'll  see." 

Conover,  vanquished  and  convinced,  no  longer 
sought  to  intimidate  him  with  horrid  suggestions. 

"Mr.  Smeed,"  he  said,  giving  him  his  hand  in 
great  admiration,  "you  go  ahead;  you  make  a  great 
record." 

"Six  more,"  cried  Macnooder. 

"Six  it  is,"  said  Hickey,  in  an  awed  voice ;  "six 
and  thirty-three  makes  thirty-nine !" 

Mrs.  Conover  and  Macnooder,  no  longer  antag- 
onists, came  in  from  the  kitchen  to  watch  the  great 
spectacle.  Little  Smeed  alone,  calm  and  uncon- 
scious, with  the  light  of  a  great  ambition  on  his 
forehead,  ate  steadily,  without  vacillation. 

"Gee,  what  a  stride !" 

"By  Jiminy,  where  does  he  put  it?"  said  Conover, 
staring  helplessly. 

"Holy  cats !" 

"Thirty-nine — thirty-nine  pancakes — gee!  !  !" 

"Hungry,"   said   Hickey,   entreatingly,   "do  you 


28o  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

think  you  could  eat  another — make  it  an  even 
forty?" 

"Three  more,"  said  Smeed,  pounding  the  table 
with  a  new  authority.  This  time  no  voice  rose  in 
remonstrance.  The  clouds  had  rolled  away.  They 
were  in  the  presence  of  a  master. 

"Pancakes  coming." 

"Bring  them  in !" 

"Three  more." 

"Three  it  is,"  said  Hickey,  faintly.  "Thirty-nina 
and  three  makes  forty-two — forty-two.  Gee !" 

In  profound  silence  the  three  pancakes  passed 
regularly  from  the  plate  down  the  throat  of  little 
Smeed.  Forty-two  pancakes ! 

"Three  more,"  said  Smeed. 

Doc  Macnooder  rushed  in  hysterically. 

"Hungry,  go  the  limit — the  limit!  If  anything 
happens  I'll  bleed  you." 

"Shut  up,  Doc!" 

"Get  out,  you  wild  man." 

Macnooder  was  sent  ignominiously  back  into  the 
kitchen,  with  the  curses  of  the  Dickinson,  and 
Smeed  assured  of  their  unfaltering  protection. 

"Three  more,"  came  the  cry  from  the  chastened 
Macnooder. 

"Three  it  is,"  said  Hickey.  "Forty-two  and  three 
makes — forty-five." 

"Holy  cats !" 

Still  little  Smeed,  without  appreciable  abatement 
of  hunger,  continued  to  eat.  A  sense  of  impending 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  28l 

calamity  and  alarm  began  to  spread.  Forty-five 
pancakes  and  still  eating!  It  might  turn  into  a 
tragedy. 

"Say,  bub — say,  now,"  said  Hickey,  gazing  anx- 
iously down  into  the  pointed  face,  "you've  done 
enough — don't  get  rash." 

"I'll  stop  when  it's  time,"  said  Smeed;  "bring 
'em  on  now,  one  at  a  time." 

"Forty-six,  forty-seven,  forty-eight,  forty-nine !" 

Suddenly,  at  the  moment  when  they  expected  him 
to  go  on  forever,  little  Smeed  stopped,  gazed  at  his 
plate,  then  at  the  fiftieth  pancake,  and  said: 

"That's  all." 

Forty-nine  pancakes !  Then,  and  only  then,  did 
they  return  to  a  realization  of  what  had  happened. 
They  cheered  Smeed,  they  sang  his  praises,  they 
cheered  again,  and  then,  pounding  the  table,  they 
cried,  in  a  mighty  chorus : 

"We  want  pancakes !" 

"Bring  us  pancakes !" 

"Pancakes,  pancakes,  we  want  pancakes  !" 

Twenty  minutes  later,  Red  Dog  and  the  Egghead, 
fed  to  bursting,  rolled  out  of  Conover's  spreading 
the  uproarious  news. 

"Free  pancakes!    Free  pancakes  !" 

The  nearest  houses,  the  Davis  and  the  Rouse, 
heard  and  came  with  a  rush. 

Red  Dog  and  the  Egghead  staggered  down  into 
the  village  and  over  to  the  circle  of  houses,  throw- 
ing out  their  arms  like  returning  bacchanalians. 


2g2  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"Free  pancakes !" 

"Hungry  Smeed's  broken  the  record!" 

"Pancakes  at  Conover's — free  pancakes!" 

The  word  jumped  from  house  to  house,  the  cam- 
pus was  emptied  in  a  trice.  The  road  became 
choked  with  the  hungry  stream  that  struggled, 
fought,  laughed,  and  shouted  as  it  stormed  to  Con- 
over's. 

"Free  pancakes!    Free  pancakes!" 

"Hurrah  for  Smeed!" 

"Hurrah  for  Hungry  Smeed !" 


The  Man  in  the  Moon. 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

From   "Rhymes   of    Childhood."     Copyright,    1900.      By 
special  permission'  of  the  publishers,  the  Bobbs-Merrill  Co. 

SAID  the  Raggedy  Man,  on  a  hot  afternoon, 
My! 

Sakes ! 

What  a  lot  o'  mistakes 

Some  little  folks  makes  on  The  Man  in  the  Moon! 
But  people  that's  been  up  to  sec  him,  like  me, 
And  calls  on  him  frequent  and  intimutly, 
Might  drop  a  few  facts  that  would  interest  you 
Clean ! 

Through ! 

If  you  wanted  'em  to — 
Some  actual  facts  that  might  interest  you ! 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


283 


0  The  Man  in  the  Moon  has  a  crick  in  his  back ; 

Wheel 

Whimm ! 

Ain't  you  sorry  for  him? 

And  a  mole  on  his  nose  that  is  purple  and  black ; 
And  his  eyes  are  so  weak  that  they  water  and  run 
If  he  dares  to  dream  even  he  looks  at  the  sun, — 
So  he  jes'  dreams  of  stars,  as  the  doctors  advise — 
My! 

Eyes! 

But  isn't  he  wise — 
To  jes'  dream  of  stars,  as  the  doctors  advise? 

And  The  Man  in  the  Moon  has  a  boil  on  his  ear — - 
Whee! 

Whing! 

What  a  singular  thing! 

1  know !   but  these  facts  are  authentic,  my  dear, — 
There's  a  boil  on  his  ear ;  and  a  corn  on  his  chin — • 
He  calls  it  a  dimple — but  dimples  stick  in — 

Yet  it  might  be  a  dimple  turned  over,  you  know ! 
Whang ! 
Ho! 

Why,  certainly  so! — 
It  might  be  a  dimple  turned  over,  you  know ! 

And  The  Man  in  the  Moon  has  a  rheumatic  knee — • 
Gee! 

Whiz! 

What  a  pity  that  is ! 


284  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

And  his  toes  have  worked  round  where  his  heels 

ought  to  be ; 

So  whenever  he  wants  to  go  North  he  goes  South, 
And  comes  back  with  porridge-crumbs  all  round  his 

mouth, 
And  he  brushes  them  off  with  a  Japanese  fan. 

Whing ! 

Whann ! 

What  a  marvellous  man ! 
What  a  remarkably  marvellous  man ! 

And  The  Man  in  the  Moon,  sighed  the  Raggedy 
Man, 
Gits! 
So! 

Sullonesome,  you  know, — 
Up  there  by  hisse'f  sence  creation  began! — 
That  when  I  call  on  him  and  then  come  away, 
He  grabs  me  and  holds  me  and  begs  me  to  stay, — 
Till — Well!    if  it  wasn't  fer  Jimmy-cum-jim, 
Dadd! 

Limb! 

I'd  go  pardners  with  him — 
Jes'  jump  my  job  here  and  be  pardners  with  him! 


FOR  READING  JAD   SrEAKL\u.  285 


The  Nap  Interrupted. 

ARTHUR  W.  PINERO. 

From  "Trelawny  of  the  'Wells.'"  A  part  of  Act  II. 
Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author. 

SIR  WILLIAM  GOWER  is  seated,  near  a  table,  asleep,  with 
a  newspaper  over  his  head,  concealing  his  face.  Miss 
TRAFALGAR  GOWER  is  sitting  at  the  farther  end  of  a  couch, 
also  asleep,  and  with  a  newspaper  over  her  head.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  near  a  table,  ROSE  is  seated,  wear- 
ing the  look  of  a  boredom  which  has  reached  the  stony 
stage.  On  another  couch  ARTHUR  sits,  gazing  at  his  boots, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets.  After  a  moment  or  two  ARTHUR 
rises  and  tiptoes  down  to  ROSE.  ROSE,  of  the  "Wells" 
Theatre,  is  engaged  to  marry  ARTHUR  GOWER.  She  is 
now  spending  the  time  at  the  house  of  Arthur's  grand- 
father, SIR  WILLIAM  GOWER.  Both  arc  hoping  to  gain  the 
approval  of  the  grandfather  and  his  sister. 

Arthur  (on  ROSE'S  left — in  a  whisper).  Quiet, 
isn't  it? 

Rose  (to  him  in  a  whisper).  Quiet!  Arthur! 
(Clutching  his  arm.)  Oh,  this  dreadful  half-hour 
after  dinner,  every,  every  evening! 

Arthur  (creeping  across  to  the  right  of  the  table 
and  sitting  there).  Grandfather  and  Aunt  Trafal- 
gar must  wake  up  soon.  They're  longer  than  usual 
to-night. 

Rose  (to  him  across  the  table).  Your  sister  Clara 
and  Captain  de  Foenix — when  they  were  courting, 
did  they  have  to  go  through  this  ? 

Arthur.     Yes. 


286  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Rose.  And  now  they  are  married,  they  still 
endure  it ! 

Arthur.     Yes. 

Rose.  And  we,  when  we  are  married,  Arthur, 
shall  we? 

Arthur.    Yes,  I  suppose  so. 

Rose  (passing  her  hand  across  her  brow). 
Phe-ew!  (Despairingly.)  Oh-h-h! 

(There  is  a  brief  pause,  and  t/ien  the  sound  of  a 
street-organ,  playing  in  the  distance,  is  heard.  The 
air  is  "Ercr  of  Thee.") 

Rose.    Hark!     (Excitedly.)     Hark! 

Arthur.    Hush! 

Rose  (heedlessly).  The  song  I  sang  in  The  Ped- 
lar— The  Pedlar  of  Marseilles!  The  song  that  used 
to  make  you  cry,  Arthur!  (He  attempts  rainlv  to 
hush  her  down,  but  she  continues  dramatically  in 
hoarse  whispers.)  And  then  Raphael  enters — comes 
on  to  the  bridge.  The  music  continues  softly. 
"Raphael,  why  have  you  kept  me  waiting?  Man,  do 
you  wish  to  break  my  heart — (thumping  her  breast) 
a  woman's  hear-r-rt,  Raphael?" 

(SiR  WILLIAM  and  Miss  GOWER  suddenly  whip 
off  their  newspapers  and  sit  erect.  They  stare  at 
each  other  for  a  moment  silently.) 

Sir  irilliam.     What  a  hideous  riot,  Trafalgar! 

Miss  Cower.  Rose,  dear,  I  hope  I  have  been  mis- 
taken— but  through  my  sleep  I  fancied  I  could  hear 
you  shrieking  at  the  top  of  your  voice. 

(SiR  WILLIAM  gets  on  to  his  feet;  all  rise,  except 
ROSE,  who  remains  seated  sullenly.) 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


287 


Sir  William.  Trafalgar,  it  is  becoming  impossible 
for  you  and  me  to  obtain  repose.  ( Turning  his  head 
sharply.)  Ha!  is  not  that  a  street-organ?  (To 
Miss  GOWER.)  An  organ? 

Miss  Gowcr.  Undoubtedly.  An  organ  in  the 
Square,  at  this  hour  of  the  evening — singularly  out 
of  place ! 

Sir  William  (looking  around).  Well,  well,  well, 
does  no  one  stir? 

Rose  (under  her  breath).     Oh,  don't  stop  it! 

(With  a  great  show  of  activity  ARTHUR  hurries 
across  the  room,  and,  when  there,  does  nothing.) 

Sir  William  (coming  upon  Rose  and  peering 
down  at  her.)  What  are  ye  upon  the  floor  for,  my 
dear?  Have  we  no  cheers?  (To  Miss  GOWER — 
producing  his  snuff-box.)  Do  we  lack  cheers  here, 
Trafalgar? 

Miss  Gowcr  (going  to  Rose).  My  dear  Rose! 
(Raising  her.)  Come,  come,  come,  this  is  quite  out 
of  place !  Young  ladies  do  not  crouch  and  huddle 
upon  the  ground — do  they,  William  ? 

Sir  William  (taking  snuff).  A  moment  ago  I 
should  have  hazarded  the  opinion  that  they  do  not. 
(Chuckling  unpleasantly.)  He,  he,  he!  (Raising 
his  hands.)  In  mercy's  name,  Trafalgar,  what  is 
befalling  my  household  ? 

Miss  Gowcr  (bursting  into  tears).  Oh,  Wil- 
liam  ! 

(Miss  GOWER  totters  to  SIR  WILLIAM  and  drops 
her  head  upon  his  breast.) 


288  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Sir  William.    Tut,  tut,  tut,  tut ! 

Miss  Goiter  (between  her  sobs).  I — I — I — I 
know  what  is  in  your  mind. 

Sir  William  (drawing  a  long  breath).    Ah-h-h-h! 

Miss  Gower.     Oh,  my  dear  brother,  be  patient! 

Sir  William.    Patient ! 

Miss  Goivcr.  Forgive  me;  I  should  have  said 
hopeful.  Be  hopeful  that  I  shall  yet  succeed  in 
ameliorating  the  disturbing  conditions  which  are 
affecting  us  so  cruelly. 

Sir  William.  Ye  never  will,  Trafalgar;  I've 
tried. 

Miss  Gowcr.  Oh,  do  nat  despond  already!  I 
feel  sure  there  are  good  ingredients  in  Rose's  char- 
acter. (Clinging  to  him.)  In  time,  William,  we  shall 
shape  her  to  be  a  fitting  wife  for  our  rash  and 
unfortunate  Arthur.  (He  shakes  Jiis  head.)  In 
time,  William,  in  time ! 

Sir  William  (soothing  her).  Well,  well,  well! 
there,  there,  there!  At  least,  my  dear  sister,  I  am 
perfectly  aweer  that  I  possess  in  you  the  woman 
above  all  others  whose  example  should  compel  such 
a  transformation. 

Miss  Gower  (throzving  her  arms  about  his  neck). 
Oh,  brother,  what  a  compliment! 

Sir  William.  Tut,  tut,  tut !  And  now,  before 
Charles  sets  the  card-table,  don't  you  think  we  had 
better — eh,  Trafalgar? 

Miss  Gower.  Yes,  yes — our  disagreeable  duty; 
let  us  discharge  it.  (SiR  WILLIAM  takes  snuff.) 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  289 

Rose,  dear,  be  seated.  (To  everybody.)  The  Vice- 
Chancellor  has  something  to  say  to  us.  Let  us  all 
be  seated. 

Sir  William  (peering  about  him).  Are  ye  seated? 
What  I  desire  to  say  is  this.  When  Miss  Trelawny 
took  up  her  residence  here,  it  was  thought  proper, 
in  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  case,  that  you, 
Arthur  (pointing  a  finger  at  ARTHUR),  you 

Arthur.    Yes,  sir. 

Sir  William.  That  you  should  remove  yourself 
to  the  establishment  of  your  sister  Clara  and  her 
husband  in  Holies  Street,  round  the  corner 

Arthur.    Yes,  sir. 

Sir  William.  Taking  your  food  in  this  house  and 
spending  other  certain  hours  here,  under  the  sur- 
veillance of  your  great-aunt  Trafalgar. 

Miss  Cower.    Yes,  William ! 

Sir  William.  This  was  considered  to  be  a  decor- 
ous,  and,  toward  Miss  Trelawny,  a  highly  respect- 
ful, course  to  pursue. 

Arthur.    Yes,  sir. 

Miss  Gower.  Any  other  course  would  have  been 
out  of  place. 

Sir  William.  And  yet  (again  extending  a  finger 
at  ARTHUR),  what  is  this  that  is  reported  to  me? 

Arthur.    I  don't  know,  sir. 

Sir  William.  I  hear  that  ye  have  on  several  occa- 
sions, at  night,  after  having  quitted  this  house  with 
Captain  and  Mrs.  De  Foenix,  been  seen  on  the  other 
side  of  the  way,  your  back  against  the  railings, 


290 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


gazing  up  at  Miss  Trelawny's  window;  and  that 
you  have  remained  in  that  position  for  a  consider- 
able space  of  time.  Is  it  true,  sir? 

Rose  (boldly).    Yes,  Sir  William. 

Sir  William.  I  venture  to  put  a  question  to  my 
grandson,  Miss  Trelawny. 

Arthur.     Yes,  sir,  it  is  quite  true. 

Sir  William.  Then,  sir,  let  me  acqueent  you  that 
these  are  not  the  manners,  not  the  practices  of  a 
gentleman. 

Arthur.    No,  sir? 

Sir  ll'illiam.  No,  sir,  they  are  the  manners,  and 
the  practices,  of  a  troubadour. 

Miss  Cower.  A  troubadour  in  Cavendish  Square! 
Quite  out  of  place ! 

Arthur.  I — I'm  very  sorry,  sir;  I — I  never  looked 
at  it  in  that  light. 

Sir  William  (snuffing).    Ah-h-h !    ho!    Pi-i-i-sh ! 

Arthur.  But  at  the  same  time,  sir,  I  dare  say — 
of  course  I  don't  speak  from  precise  knowledge — 
but  I  dare  say  there  were  a  good  many — a  good 
many 

•Sir  William.     Good  many — what,  sir? 

Arthur.  A  good  many  respectable  troubadours, 
sir 

Rose  (starting  to  her  feet  heroically  and  defi- 
antly). And  what  I  wish  to  say,  Sir  William,  is 
this.  I  wish  to  avow,  to  declare  before  the  world, 
that  Arthur  and  I  have  had  many  lengthy  interviews 
while  he  has  been  stationed  against  those  railings 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  2QI 

over  there;  I  murmuring  to  him  softly  from  my 
bedroom  window,  he  responding  in  tremulous 
whispers — 

Sir  William  (starting  to  his  feet).  You — you  tell 
me  such  things  !  (All  rise.) 

Miss  Gowcr.  The  Square  in  which  we  have  re- 
sided for  years  !  Our  neighbors ! 

Sir  William  (shaking  a  trembling  hand  at 
ARTHUR)  .  The — the  character  of  my  house ! 

Arthur.  Again  I  am  extremely  sorry,  sir — but 
these  are  the  only  confidential  conversations  Rose 
and  I  now  enjoy. 

Charles  (entering).  The  cawd-table,  Sir  Wil- 
liam? 

Miss  Goiver  (agitatedly).  Yes,  yes,  by  all  means, 
Charles;  the  card-table,  as  usual.  (To  SIR  WIL- 
LIAM.) A  rubber  will  comfort  you,  soothe  you — 

Rose.    Infamous !    Infamous ! 

Arthur.    Be  calm,  Rose,  dear,  be  calm ! 

Rose.  Tyrannical !  diabolical !  I  cannot  endure 
it.  (She  throivs  herself  into  a  chair  in  the  far 
corner  of  the  room.  He  stands  behind  her,  appre- 
hensively, endeavoring  to  calm  her.) 

Arthur  (over  her  shoulder).  They  mean  well, 
dearest 

Rose  (hysterically).    Well!  ha,  ha,  ha! 

Arthur.     But  they  are  old-fashioned  people — 

Rose.  Old-fashioned !  They  belong  to  the  time 
when  men  and  women  were  put  to  the  torture.  I 
am  being  tortured — mentally  tortured 


292  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Arthur.  They  have  not  many  more  years  in  this 
world 

Rose.  Nor  I,  at  this  rate,  many  more  months. 
They  are  killing  me — like  Agnes  in  The  Spectre  of 
St.  Ivcs.  She  expires,  in  the  fourth  act,  as  I  shall 
die  in  Cavendish  Square,  painfully,  of  no  recog- 
nized disorder 

Arthur.  And  anything  we  can  do  to  make  them 
happy 

Rose.  To  make  the  Vice-Chancellor  happy!  I 
won't  try  !  I  will  not !  He's  a  fiend,  a  vampire ! 

Arthur.    Oh,  hush ! 

Rose  (snatching  up  SIR  WILLIAM'S  snuff-box, 
which  he  has  left  upon  the  table).  His  snuff-box! 
I  wish  I  could  poison  his  snuff,  as  Lucrecia  Borgia 
would  have  done.  She  would  have  removed  him 
within  two  hours  of  my  arrival — I  mean,  her  ar- 
rival. (Opening  the  snuff-box  and  mimicking  SIR 
WILLIAM.)  And  here  he  sits  and  lectures  me,  and 
dictates  to  me !  to  Miss  Trelawny !  "I  venture  to 
put  a  question  to  my  grandson,  Miss  Trelawny !" 
Ha,  ha!  (Taking  pinch  of  snuff  thoughtlessly  but 
rigorously.)  "Yah-h-h-h!  Pish!  Have  we  no 
cheers?  Do  we  lack  cheers  here,  Trafalgar?"  (Sud- 
denly.) Oh ! 

Arthur.    What  have  you  done? 

Rose  (in  suspense,  replacing  the  snuff-box).  The 
snuff! 

Arthur.    Rose,  dear! 

Rose  (putting  her  handkerchief  to  her  nose,  and 
rising).  Ah ! 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


293 


(CHARLES,  having  prepared  the  card-table,  and 
arranged  the  candlesticks  upon  it,  has  zvithdrawn. 
Miss  GOWER  and  SIR  WILLIAM  now  rise.) 

Miss  Cower.  The  table  is  prepared,  William. 
Arthur,  I  assume  you  would  prefer  to  sit  and  con- 
template Rose ? 

Arthur.    Thank  you,  aunt. 

(ROSE  sneezes  violently.) 

Miss  Gower  (to  ROSE).  Oh,  my  dear  child! 
(Looking  around.) 

Arthur.    Are  you  in  pain,  dearest?    Rose! 

Rose.    Agony ! 

Arthur.  Pinch  your  upper  lip.  (She  sneezes 
twice,  loudly,  and  sinks  back  upon  the  couch.) 

Sir  William  (testily).  Sssh!  sssh!  sssh!  this  is 
to  be  whist,  I  hope. 

Miss  Gower.  Rose,  Rose !  young  ladies  do  not 
sneeze  quite  so  continuously. 

Rose  (weakly).  I — I  think  I  had  better — what 
d'ye  call  it? — withdraw  for  a  few  moments. 

Sir  William  (sitting  again).  Do  so.  (ROSE  dis- 
appears.) 


294  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Neighbor  Jones's  Notion. 

NIXON  WATERMAN. 

From  "In  Merry  Mood."     Copyright,  1902.     By  special 
permission  of  the  publishers,  Forbes  &  Co. 

AN'  so  she  slept,  while  the  neighbors  came 

To  the  darkened  house  that  day; 
With  weqpin'  hearts  they  breathed  her  name 

In  the  kindest  sort  o'  way. 
An'  never  a  one  but  through  her  tears 

Spoke  some  sweet,  lovin'  word 
She  had  carefully  kept  unsaid  fer  years; 

But  the  corpse — it  never  heard. 

An'  they  brought  her  flowers  rich  an'  rare, 

Jest  full  o'  sweet  perfume, 
An'  wreaths  o'  roses  everywhere 

Made  glad  the  darkened  room. 
I  thought  of  her  life  in  sorrow  hid, 

An'  the  world  o'  joy  if  she 
Could  'a'  owned  them  wreaths  on  her  coffin-lid; 

But  the  corpse — it  couldn't  see. 

An'  here's  a  word  fer  neighbors  dear, 

Who  would  praise  me  gone,  no  doubt: 
If  you  have  joys  to  see  an'  hear, 

Why  don't  you  fetch  'em  out  ? 
All  these  post-mortem  carryin's  on 

Are  proper-like  an'  nice, 
But  with  the  one  that's  dead  an'  gone 

They  don't  cut  any  ice. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  295 

The  Puzzled  Census-Taker. 

JOHN  GODFREY  SAXE. 

"GOT  any  boys?"  the  Marshal  said 

To  a  lady  from  over  the  Rhine ; 
And  the  lady  shook  her  flaxen  head, 

And  civilly  answered,  "Nein!"* 

"Got  any  girls  ?"  the  Marshal  said 

To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine ; 
And  again  the  lady  shook  her  head, 

And  civilly  answered,  "Ncin!" 

"But  some  are  dead  ?"  the  Marshal  said 
To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine; 

And  again  the  lady  shook  her  head, 
And  civilly  answered,  "Ncin!" 

"Husband,  of  course?"  the  Marshal  said 
To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine ; 

And  again  she  shook  her  flaxen  head, 
And  civilly  answered,  "Nein!" 

"What's  that  you  say?"  the  Marshall  said 

To  the  lady  from  over  the  Rhine ; 
And  again  she  shook  her  flaxen  head, 

And  civilly  answered,  "Nein!" 

"Now  what  do  you  mean  by  shaking  your  head, 

And  always  answering  'Nine'?" 
"Ich  kann  nicht  Englisch!"  civilly  said 

The  lady  from  over  the  Rhine. 

*Nein,  pronounced  nine,  is  the  German  for  no. 


296  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd. 
RUDYARD  KIPLING. 

OVER  our  heads  burned  the  wonderful  Indian 
stars,  which  are  not  all  pricked  in  on  one  plane,  but, 
preserving  an  orderly  perspective,  draw  the  eye 
through  the  velvet  darkness  of  the  void  up  to  the 
barred  doors  of  heaven  itself.  The  earth  was  a 
gray  shadow  more  unreal  than  the  sky.  We  could 
hear  her  breathing  lightly  in  the  pauses  between 
the  howling  of  the  jackals,  the  movement  of 'the 
wind  in  the  tamarisks,  and  the  fitful  mutter  of  mus- 
ketry fire  leagues  away  to  the  left.  A  native  woman 
in  some  unseen  hut  began  to  sing,  the  mail  train 
thundered  past  on  its  way  to  Delhi,  and  a  roosting 
crow  cawed  drowsily.  Then  there  was  a  belt-loosen- 
ing silence  about  the  fires,  and  the  even  breathing  of 
the  crowded  earth  took  up  the  story. 

The  men,  full  fed,  turned  to  tobacco  and  song — 
their  officers  with  them. 

I  drifted  across  to  the  men's  fires  in  search  of 
Mulvaney,  whom  I  found  strategically  greasing  his 
feet  by  the  blaze.  There  is  nothing  particularly 
lovely  in  the  sight  of  a  private  thus  engaged  after 
a  long  day's  march,  but  when  you  reflect  on  the 
exact  proportion  of  the  ''might,  majesty,  dominion, 
and  power"  of  the  British  Empire  that  stands  on 
those  feet,  you  take  an  interest  in  the  proceedings. 

"Did  you  iver  have  onendin'  developmint  an' 
nothin'  to  pay  for  it  in  your  life,  sorr?" 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


297 


"Never  without  having  to  pay,"  I  said. 

"That's  thrue.  Tis  mane,  whin  you  considher  on 
ut ;  but  tit's  the  same  wid  horse  o-r  fut.  A  headache 
if  you  dhrink,  an'  a  bellyache  if  you  eat  too  much, 
an'  a  heartache  to  kape  all  down.  Faith  the  beast 
only  gets  the  colic,  an'  he's  the  lucky  man. 

"For  all  we  take  we  must  pay;  but  the  price 
is  cruel  high,"  murmured  Mulvaney. 

"What's  the  trouble  ?"  I  said,  gently,  for  I  knew 
that  he  was  a  man  of  an  inextinguishable  sorrow. 

"Hear  now,"  said  he.  "Ye  know  what  I  am  now. 
I  know  what  I  mint  to  be  at  the  beginnin'  av  my 
service.  I've  tould  you  time  an'  again,  an'  what  I 
have  not,  Dinah  Shadd  has.  An*  what  am  I?  Oh, 
Mary  Mother  av  Hiven  !  an  ould  dhrunken,  untrust- 
able  baste  av  a  privit  that  has  seen  the  regiment 
change  out  from  colonel  to  drummer-boy,  not  wanst 
or  twicet,  but  scores  av  times!  Ay,  scores!  An' 
me  not  so  near  gettin'  promotion  as  in  the  furst. 
Good  cause  the  reg'ment  has  to  know  me  for  the 
best  soldier  in  ut.  Better  cause  have  I  to  know 
mesilf  for  the  worst  man." 

And  after  an  interval  the  low,  even  voice  of  Mul- 
vaney began  : 

"Did  I  ever  tell  you  how  Dinah  Shadd  came  to 
be  wife  av  mine?" 

I  dissembled  a  burning  anxiety  that  I  had  felt 
for  some  months — ever  since  Dinah  Shadd,  the 
strong,  the  patient,  and  the  infinitely  tender,  had,  of 
her  own  good  love  and  free-will,  washed  a  shirt  for 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


me,  moving  in  a  barren  land  where  washing  was 
not. 

"Begin  at  the  beginning,"  I  insisted.  "Mrs.  Mul- 
vaney  told  me  that  you  married  her  when  you  were 
quartered  in  Krab  Bokhar  barracks." 

"An'  the  same  is  a  cess-pit,"  said  Mulvaney, 
piously.  "She  spoke  thrue,  did  Dinah.  'Twas  this 
way.  Talkin'  av  that,  have  ye  iver  fallen  in  love, 
sorr?" 

I  preserved  the  silence  of  the  damned.  Mulvaney 
continued  : 

"Thin  I  will  assume  that  ye  have  not.  I  did.  In 
the  days  av  my  youth,  as  I  have  more  than  wanst 
tould  you,  I  was  a  man  that  filled  the  eye  an'  de- 
lighted the  sowl  av  women.  Niver  man  was  hated 
as  I  have  been.  Niver  man  was  loved  as  I  —  no, 
not  within  half  a  day's  march  av  ut.  For  the  first 
five  years  av  my  service,  whin  I  was  what  I  wud 
give  my  sowl  to  be  now,  I  tuk  whatever  was  widin 
my  reach  an'  digested  ut,  an'  that's  more  than  most 
men  can  say.  Dhrink  I  tuk,  an'  ut  did  me  no  harm. 
By  the  hollow  av  hiven,  I  could  play  wid  four 
women  at  wanst,  an'  kape  thim  from  findin'  out 
anything  about  the  other  three,  and  smile  like  a 
full-blown  marigold  through  ut  all.  An'  so  I  lived 
an'  so  I  was  happy,  till  afther  that  business  wid 
Annie  Bragin  —  she  that  turned  me  off  as  cool  as  a 
meat-safe,  an'  taught  me  where  I  stud  in  the  mind 
av  an  honest  woman.  'Twas  no  sweet  dose  to  take. 

"Afther  that  I  sickened  awhile,  an'  tuk  thought 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  -99 

to  my  reg'mental  work,  conceiting  mesilf  I  wud 
study  an'  be  a  sargint,  an'  a  major-gineral  twinty 
minutes  afther  that.  But  on  top  o'  my  ambitious- 
ness  there  was  an  empty  place  in  my  sowl,  an'  me 
own  opinion  av  mesilf  cud  not  fill  ut.  Sez  I  to 
mesilf:  'Terence,  you're  a  great  man  an'  the  best 
set  up  in  the  reg'ment.  Go  on  an'  get  promotion.' 
Sez  mesilf  to  me,  'What  for?'  Sez  I  to  mesilf,  'For 
the  glory  av  ut.'  Sez  mesilf  to  me,  'Will  that  fill 
these  two  strong  arrums  av  yours,  Terence?'  'Go 
to  the  devil,'  sez  I  to  mesilf.  'Go  to  the  married 
lines,'  sez  mesilf  to  me.  '  'Tis  the  same  thing,'  sez  I 
to  mesilf.  'Av  you're  the  same  man,  ut  is,'  sez 
mesilf  to  me.  An'  wid  that  I  considhered  on  ut  a 
long  while.  Did  you  iver  feel  that  way,  sorr?" 

I  snored  gently,  knowing  that  if  Mulvaney  were 
uninterrupted  he  would  go  on.  The  clamor  from 
the  bivouac  fires  beat  up  to  the  stars  as  the  rival 
singers  of  the  companies  were  pitted  against  each 
other. 

"So  I  felt  that  way,  an'  a  bad  time  ut  was. 
Wanst,  bein'  a  fool,  I  went  into  the  married  lines, 
more  for  the  sake  av  spakin'  to  our  ould  color- 
sargint  Shadd  than  for  any  thruck  wid  wimmen- 
folk.  I  was  a  corp'ril  then — rejuced  aftherwards; 
but  a  corp'ril  then.  I've  got  a  photograft  av  mesilf 
to  prove  ut.  'You'll  take  a  cup  av  tay  wid  us  ?'  sez 
he.  'I  will  that,'  I  sez  ;  'tho'  tay  is  not  my  divarsion.' 
'  'Twud  be  better  for  you  if  ut  were/  sez  ould 
Mother  Shadd.  An'  she  had  ought  to  know,  for 


3oo 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


Shadd,  in  the  ind  av  his  service,  dhrank  bung-full 
each  night. 

"Wid  that  I  tuk  off  my  gloves — there  was  pipe- 
clay in  thim  so  that  they  stud  alone — an'  pulled  up 
my  chair,  lookin'  round  at  the  china  ornamints  an' 
bits  av  things  in  the  Shadds'  quarters.  They  were 
things  that  belong  to  a  woman,  an'  no  camp  kit,  here 
to-day  an'  dishipated  next.  'You're  comfortable  in 
this  place,  sargint,'  sez  I.  *  Tis  the  wife  that  did 
ut,  boy,'  sez  he,  pointin'  the  stem  av  his  pipe  to  ould 
Mother  Shadd,  an'  she  smacked  the  top  av  his  bald 
head  apon  the  compliment.  That  manes  you  want 
money/  sez  she. 

"An'  thin — an'  thin  whin  the  kettle  was  to  be 
filled,  Dinah  came  in — my  Dinah — her  sleeves 
rowled  up  to  the  elbow,  an'  her  hair  in  a  gowlden 
glory  over  her  forehead,  the  big  blue  eyes  beneath 
twinklin'  like  stars  on  a  frosty  night,  an'  the  tread 
of  her  two  feet  lighter  than  waste  paper  from  the 
colonel's  basket  in  ord'ly-room  when  ut's  emptied. 
Bein'  but  a  shlip  av  a  girl,  she  went  pink  at  seein' 
me,  an'  I  twisted  me  mustache  an'  looked  at  a  pic- 
ture forninst  the  wall.  Never  show  a  woman  that 
ye  care  the  snap  av  a  finger  for  her,  an'  begad  she'll 
come  bleatin'  to  your  boot  heels." 

"I  suppose  that's  why  you  followed  Annie  Bragin 
till  everybody  in  the  married  quarters  laughed  at 
you,"  said  I,  remembering  that  unhallowed  wooing, 
and  casting  off  the  disguise  of  drowsiness. 

"I'm  layin'  down  the  gin'ral  theory  of  the  attack/1 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  301 

said  Mulvaney,  driving  his  foot  into  the  dying  fire. 
"If  you  read  the  'Soldier's  Pocket-Book, '  which 
never  any  soldier  reads,  you'll  see  that  there  are 
exceptions.  When  Dinah  was  out  av  the  door  (an' 
'twas  as  though  the  sunlight  had  gone  too),  'Mother 
av  Hiven,  sargint !'  sez  I,  'but  is  that  your  daughter?' 
'I've  believed  that  way  these  eighteen  years,'  sez 
ould  Shadd,  his  eyes  twinklin'.  'But  Mrs.  Shadd 
has  her  own  opinion,  like  ivry  other  woman.'  '  'Tis 
wid  yours  this  time,  for  a  mericle,'  sez  Mother 
Shadd.  'Then  why,  in  the  name  av  fortune,  did  I 
never  see  her  before?'  sez  I.  'Bekase  you've  been 
thraipsin'  round  wid  the  married  women  these  three 
years  past.  She  was  a  bit  av  a  child  till  last  year, 
an'  she  shot  up  wid  the  spring,'  sez  ould  Mother 
Shadd.  Til  thraipse  no  more,'  sez  I.  'D'you  mane 
that?'  sez  ould  Mother  Shadd,  lookin'  at  me  side- 
ways, like  a  hen  looks  at  a  hawk  whin  the  chickens 
are  runnin'  free.  'Thry  me,  an'  tell,'  sez  I.  Wid 
that  I  pulled  on  my  gloves,  dhrank  off  the  tea,  an' 
wint  out  av  the  house  as  stiff  as  at  gen'ral  p'rade, 
for  well  I  knew  that  Dinah  Shadd's  eyes  were  in  the 
small  av  my  back  out  av  the  scullery  window.  Faith, 
that  was  the  only  time  I  mourned  I  was  not  a  cav'l- 
ryman,  for  the  sake  av  the  spurs  to  jingle. 

"I  wint  out  to  think,  an'  I  did  a  powerful  lot  av 
thinkin',  but  ut  all  came  round  to  that  shlip  av  a 
girl  in  the  dotted  blue  dhress,  wid  the  blue  eyes  an' 
the  sparkil  in  them.  Thin  I  kept  off  canteen,  an'  I 
kept  to  the  married  quarthers  or  near  by  on  the 


302  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

chanst  av  meetin'  Dinah.  Did  I  meet  her!  Oh, 
my  time  past,  did  I  not,  vvid  a  lump  in  my  throat  as 
big  as  my  valise,  an'  my  heart  goin'  like  a  farrier's 
forge  on  a  Saturday  mornin' !  'Twas  'Good-day 
to  ye,  Miss  Dinah,'  and  'Good-day  t'you,  corp'ril,' 
for  a  week  or  two,  an'  divil  a  bit  further  could  I 
get,  bekaze  av  the  respict  I  had  to  that  girl  that  I 
cud  ha'  broken  betune  finger  an'  thumb." 

Here  I  giggled  as  I  recalled  the  gigantic  figure  of 
Dinah  Shadd  when  she  handed  me  my  shirt. 

./'Ye  may  laugh,"  grunted  Mulvaney.  "But  I'm 
speakin'  the  trut',  an'  'tis  you  that  are  in  fault. 
Dinah  was  a  girl  that  wud  ha'  taken  the  imperious- 
ness  out  av  the  Duchess  av  Clonmel  in  those  days. 
Flower  hand,  foot  av  shod  air,  an'  the  eyes  av  the 
mornin'  she  had.  That  is  my  wife  to-day — ould 
Dinah,  an'  never  aught  else  than  Dinah  Shadd  to  me. 

"  'Twas  after  three  weeks  standin'  off  an'  on,  an' 
niver  makin'  headway  excipt  through  the  eyes,  that 
a  little  drummer-boy  grinned  in  me  face  whin  I  had 
admonished  him  wid  the  buckle  av  my  belt  for 
riotin'  all  over  the  place.  'An'  I'm  not  the  only  wan 
that  doesn't  kape  to  barricks,'  sez  he.  I  tuk  him 
by  the  scruff  av  his  neck — my  heart  was  hung  on' 
a  hair-thrigger  those  days,  you  will  understand — an', 
'Out  wid  ut,'  sez  I,  ''or  I'll  lave  no  bone  av  you 
unbruk.'  'Speak  to  Dempsey,'  sez  he,  howlin'. 
'Dempsey  which,'  sez  I,  'ye  unwashed  limb  av 
Satan?'  'Of  the  Bobtailed  Dhragoons,'  sez  he. 
'He's  seen  her  home  from  her  aunt's  house  in  the 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


303 


civil  lines  four  times  this  fortnight/  'Child/  sez  I, 
dhroppin'  him,  'your  tongue's  stronger  than  your 
body.  Go  to  your  quarters.  I'm  sorry  I  dhressed 
you  down.' 

"At  that  I  went  four  ways  to  wanst  huntin' 
Dempsey.  I  was  mad  to  think  that  wid  all  my  airs 
among  women  I  shud  ha'  been  ch'ated  by  a  basin- 
faced  fool  av  a  cav'lryman  not  fit  to  trust  on  a 
mule  thrunk.  Presintly  I  found  him  in  our  lines — 
the  Bobtails  was  quartered  next  us — an'  a  tallowy, 
top-heavy  son  of  a  she-mule  he  was,  wid  his  big 
brass  spurs  an'  his  plastrons  on  his  epigastons  an' 
all.  But  he  niver  flinched  a  hair. 

"  'A  word  wid  you,  Dempsey/  sez  I.  'You've 
walked  wid  Dinah  Shadd  four  times  this  fortnight 
gone.' 

"'What's  that  to  you?'  sez  he.  'I'll  walk  forty 
times  more,  an'  forty  on  top  av  that,  'e  shovel- 
futted  clod-breakin'  infantry  lance-corp'ril.' 

"Before  I  could  gyard  he  had  his  gloved  fist  home 
on  me  cheek,  an'  down  I  went  full  sprawl.  'Will 
that  content  you  ?'  sez  he,  blowin'  on  his  knuckles 
for  all  the  world  like  a  Scots  Grays  orf'cer.  'Con- 
tent?' sez  I.  'For  your  own  sake,  man,  take  off 
your  spurs,  peel  your  jackut,  and  onglove.  Tis  the 
beginnin'  av  the  overture.  Stand  up !' 

"He  stud  all  he  knew,  but  he  niver  peeled 
his  jackut,  an'  his  shoulders  had  no  fair  play.  I 
was  fightin'  for  Dinah  Shadd  an'  that  cut  on 
me  cheek.  What  hope  had  he  forninst  me? 


304  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

'Stand  up!'  sez  I,  time  an'  again,  when  he  was 
beginnin'  to  quarter  the  ground  an'  gyard  high  an' 
go  large.  'This  isn't  riding-school,'  scz  I.  'Oh, 
man,  stand  up,  an'  let  me  get  at  ye!'  until  the 
wind  was  knocked  out  av  him  on  the  bare  ground. 
'Stand  up,'  sez  I,  'or  I'll  kick  your  head  into  your 
chest.'  An'  I  wud  ha'  done  ut,  too,  so  ragin'  mad 
I  was. 

"  'Me  collar-bone's  bruk,'  sez  he.  'Help  me  back 
to  lines.  I'll  walk  wid  her  no  more.'  So  I  helped 
him  back. 

"Next  day  the  news  was  in  both  barricks ;  an' 
whin  I  met  Dinah  Shadd  wid  a  cheek  like  all  the 
reg'mintal  tailors'  samples,  there  was  no  'Good- 
mornin',  corp'ril,'  or  aught  else.  'An'  what  have  I 
done,  Miss  Shadd/  says  I,  very  bould,  plantin' 
mesilf  forninst  her,  'that  ye  should  not  pass  the 
time  of  day?' 

"  'Ye've  half  killed  rough-rider  Dempsey,'  sez 
she,  her  dear  blue  eyes  fillin'  up. 

"  'May  be/  sez  I.  'Was  he  a  friend  av  yours  that 
saw  ye  home  four  times  in  a  fortnight  ?' 

1  'Yes/  sez  she,  very  bould ;  but  her  mouth  was 
down  at  the  corners.  'An' — an'  what's  that  to  you  ?' 

"  'Ask  Dempsey/  sez  I,  pretendin'  to  go  away. 

"  'Did  you  fight  for  me  then,  ye  silly  man  ?'  she 
sez,  tho'  she  knew  ut  all  along. 

"  'Who  else  ?'  sez  I ;  an'  I  tuk  wan  pace  to  the 
front. 

"  'I  wasn't  worth  ut/  sez  she,  fingerin'  her  apron. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


305 


;  That's  for  me  to  say,'  sez  I.    'Shall  I  say  ut  ?' 
1  'Yes,'  sez  she,  in  a  saint's  whisper ;  an'  at  that 
I   explained  mesilf;    an'  she  tould  me  what  ivry 
man  that  is  a  man,  an'  many  that  is  a  woman,  hears 
wanst  in  his  life. 

"  'But  what  made  ye  cry  at  startin',  Dinah  dar- 
lin'?'  sez  I. 

"  'Your — your  bloody  cheek,'  says  she,  duckin' 
her  little  head  down  on  my  sash  (I  was  duty  for 
the  day),  an'  whimperin'  like  a  sorrowful  angel. 

"Now  a  man  cud  take  that  two  ways.  I  tuk  ut 
as  pleased  me  best,  an'  my  first  kiss  wid  ut.  Mother 
av  Innocence!  but  I  kissed  her  on  the  tip  av  the 
nose  an'  undher  the  eye,  an'  a  girl  that  lets  a  kiss 
come  tumbleways  like  that  has  never  been  kissed 
before.  Take  note  av  that,  sorr.  Thin  we  wint, 
hand  in  hand,  to  ould  Mother  Shadd  like  two  little 
childher,  an'  she  said  it  was  no  bad  thing ;  an'  ould 
Shadd  nodded  behind  his  pipe,  an'  Dinah  ran  away 
to  her  own  room.  That  day  I  throd  on  rollin' 
clouds.  All  earth  was  too  small  to  hould  me. 
Begad,  I  cud  ha'  picked  the  sun  out  av  the  sky  for 
a  live  coal  to  me  pipe,  so  magnificent  I  was.  Eyah ! 
that  day!  that  day!" 


306  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Modern  Medicine. 
STRICKLAND  W.  GILLILAN. 

From  "Including  Finnigan."     Copyright,  1908,  by  Strick- 
land W.  Gillilan.     Reprinted  by  special  permission. 

I  WENT  to  a  modern  doctor  to  learn  what  it  wa* 

was  wrong. 
I'd  lately  been  off  my  fodder,  and  life  was  no  more 

a  song. 
He  felt  of  my  pulse  as  they  all  do,  he  gazed  at  my 

outstretched  tongue; 
Pie  took  off  my  coat  and  weskit  and  harked  at  each 

wheezing  lung. 
He  fed  me  a  small  glass  penstalk  with  figures  upon 

the  side, 
And  this  was  his  final  verdict  when  all  of  my  marks 

he'd  spied: 

"Do  you  eat  fried  eggs  ?    Then  quit  it. 

You  don't  ?    Then  hurry  and  eat  'em, 
Along  with  some  hay  that  was  cut  in  May — 

There  are  no  other  foods  to  beat  'em. 
Do  you  walk?    Then  stop  instanter — 

For  exercise  will  not  do 
For  people  with  whom  it  doesn't  agree — 
And  this  is  the  rule  for  you : 
Just  quit  whatever  you  do  do 

And  begin  whatever  you  don't ; 
For  what  you  don't  do  may  agree  with  you 
As  whatever  you  do  do  don't." 


1'OR  READING  AND   SPEAKING. 


307 


Yea,  thus  saith  the  modern  doctor,  "Tradition  be 

double  durned ! 
What  the  oldsters  knew  was  nothing  compared  to 

the  things  we've  learned. 
There's  nothing  in  this  or  that  thing  that's  certain 

in  every  case, 
Any  more  than  a  single  bonnet's  becoming  to  every 

face. 
It's  all  in  the  diagnosis  that  tells  us  the  patient's 

fix— 
The  modern  who  knows  his  business  is  up  to  a  host 

of  tricks. 

"Do  you  eat  roast  pork  ?    Then  stop  it. 

You  don't?     Then  get  after  it  quickly. 
For  the  long-eared  ass  gives  the  laugh  to  grass 

And  delights  in  the  weed  that's  prickly. 
Do  you  sleep  with  the  windows  open? 

Then  batten  them  good  and  tight 
And  swallow  the  same  old  fetid  air 
Through  all  of  the  snoozesome  night. 
Just  quit  whatever  you  do  do 
And  do  whatever  you  don't ; 
For  what  you  don't  do  may  agree  with  you 
As  whatever  you  do  do  don't." 


308  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

A  Seven-Dollar  Bill. 
GEORGE  RANDOLPH  CHESTER. 

Arranged  from  a  story  in  The  Saturday  Evening  Post. 
Copyright,  1906,  by  the  Curtis  Publishing  Company.  By 
special  permission  of  the  publishers  and  of  the  author. 

"PLEASED — meet  you,  Miss  Edwards,"  mumbled 
Dudley. 

He  bowed  unusually  low  in  order  to  gain  time. 
And  so  this  was  Miss  Abigail  Edwards !  Just  at 
that  moment  a  club  waiter  sidled  up  to  him  with: 
"Beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Ilargrave,  there  is  a  tele- 
phone message  for  you." 

He  was  very  glad  to  excuse  himself  and  hurry 
into  the  telephone  booth.  And  so  this  was  Miss 
Abigail  Edwards!  Abigail!  Why,  the  name  itself 
had  suggested  to  him  the  vision  of  a  grim-visaged 
spinster  of  at  least  forty-five — and  this  lithe,  splen- 
didly poised  young  woman  was  a  dream,  an  absolute 
dream. 

He  closed  himself  in  the  telephone  booth  and 
picked  up  the  receiver. 

"This  is  Dudley  Hargrave,"  he  mechanically 
announced. 

One  second  later  he  had  slammed  the  receiver  on 
the  hook  and  was  banging  the  door  of  the  booth 
behind  him.  All  the  message  that  he  had  got  con- 
sisted of  just  the  two  words : 

"Seven  dollars!" 

"It's  an  outrage !"  he  snapped  as  he  strode  back 
out. 


FOR  READING  AND   SPEAKING. 


309 


Miss  Edwards  was  standing  by  the  porch-rail, 
drinking  in  the  beauty  of  woods  and  meadow  and 
dancing  brook  that  lay  before  her.  She  turned  as 
Mr.  Hargrave  approached  her. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  have  met  you  to-day,  Miss 
Edwards,"  Hargrave  said  energetically.  "Inexcus- 
able as  it  may  seem  to  bring  up  such  matters  here, 
I  must  insist  that  if  you  are  back  of  this  persecu- 
tion  " 

She  paused  long  enough  to  look  at  him,  then — 
merely  one  sweeping  glance,  and  he  instantly  con- 
gealed. He  did  not  even  get  a  chance  to  stammer  ; 
he  simply  froze  up. 

Why  hadn't  he  known  that  Miss  Abigail  Edwards, 
whom  her  father  had  doomed  in  his  will  to  take 
active  part  in  a  big  business  for  one  hour  each  work- 
ing-day, would  prove  to  be  the  peerless  creature 
of  his  dreams,  the  exact  ideal  for  which  he  had 
sought  ever  since  his  coming  of  age?  She  was 
precisely  the  type  of  girl  that  he  had  woven  out 
of  his  own  fancies,  and  had  loved,  actually  loved, 
all  his  life.  He  was  young,  remember. 

Seven  dollars !  What  was  seven  dollars,  to  stand 
between  a  man  and  his  possible  lifelong  happiness? 
Of  course  the  seven  dollars  didn't  matter  much; 
it  was  the  principle  of  the  thing.  But  what  were 
even  principles  when  it  came  to  a  long-sought  and 
perfected  ideal? 

Seven  dollars!  He  felt  abased  at  the  idea  of 
having  quibbled  over  any  such  sum.  He  was  still 
in  this  frame  of  mind  when  he  reached  his  club  in 


310  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

the  city,  and  until  he  opened  a  collect  telegram  that 
he  found  awaiting  him. 

"Seven  dollars!" 

That  was  all  there  was  in  it;  just  those  two 
words.  On  his  dresser  he  found  a  letter  conspicu- 
ously placed.  It  was  a  square  envelope,  tinted  and 
faintly  scented,  and  bore  his  name  in  a  very  neat 
hand.  He  opened  it,  and  all  that  he  found  inside 
was  a  leaf  torn  from  a  daily  calendar,  bearing  the 
big,  black  figure  seven! 

Mr.  Hargrave  went  to  his  writing-desk  presently 
and  took  out  a  business  envelope  bearing  the  return 
address  of  Edwards  &  Co.  He  reread  the  inclosure, 
which  was  an  ordinary  typewritten  affair: 

DEAR  SIR:  Miss  Abigail  Edwards,  to  whom  I  have 
referred  your  rather  brusque  refusal  to  pay  the  enclosed 
bill,  "as  a  matter  of  principle,"  directs  that  it  must  be  col- 
lected— also  as  a  matter  of  principle. 

Your  claim  that  the  spark-attachment  for  your  automo- 
bile was  not  received  in  good  condition  is  absolutely  unten- 
able in  view  of  the  fact  that  you  neglected  to  report  the 
same  to  us  until  four  months  had  elapsed. 

Kindly  remit  at  once  and  save  us  the  trouble  of  taking 
drastic  measures. 

Dudley  shuddered  as  he  recalled  his  reply.  Being 
young  and  impetuous,  he  had  immediately  indited 
the  following: 

Get  as  drastic  as  you  like.  I'm  not  going  to  pay  for 
imperfect  goods,  even  at  the  command  of  Miss  Abigail, 
Miss  Beatrice,  Miss  Cecilia,  Miss  Dorothea,  Miss  Evan- 
geline,  Miss  Florodora,  and  any  feminine  memb»  of  the 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

Edwards  family,  clear  through  the  alphabet  to  the  more 
probable  Xantippe. 

In  the  meantime  I  don't  mind  receiving  your  occasional 
duns.  In  fact,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  have  you  keep  me 
reminded  of  this  seven-dollar  bill. 

When  Miss  Abigail  was  shown  this  missive  her 
chin  went  up  and  her  brows  went  down. 

"Keep  him  reminded,  Mr.  Bank, — daily,"  she 
grimly  directed.  Whereat  her  manager  smiled  and 
shook  his  gray  head. 

"YouVe  the  spunk  of  your  father,"  commented 
Mr.  Banks,  rising.  "I'll  put  the  matter  into  the 
hands  of  Miss  Duce." 

He  did  so.  He  turned  over  the  letter  to  that 
bright  young  lady,  whose  latent  capacity  for  hilari- 
ous mischief  was  as  yet  unsuspected,  with  the  mere 
direction  to  follow  Mr.  Hargrave's  own  suggestion 
and  "keep  him  reminded  rather  constantly."  The 
big,  black  figure  that  now  stared  Mr.  Dudley  Har- 
grave  in  the  face  was  one  of  the  reminders. 

Seven  dollars !  Why,  that  girl  was  the  master- 
piece of  all  created  beings !  Mechanically  he  took 
his  check-book  from  his  writing-desk  and  opened  it, 
but,  as  his  pen  hovered  over  the  printed  form,  a 
messenger-boy  came  to  his  door  with  a  long,  legal- 
looking  letter.  He  knew  what  it  was  before  he 
opened  it.  "Seven  dollars!"  For  a  moment  the 
image  of  Miss  Edwards  was  blurred,  and  naturally 
so,  Dudley  being  mere  flesh  and  blood — mostly 
warm  blood.  It  struck  him  that  to  pay  this  bill  now 


312  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

would  be  a  more  or  less  ridiculous  surrender,  and  he 
shut  the  check-book  with  a  snap.  In  place  of  the 
remittance  he  wrote  a  brief,  sarcastic  note  to  Ed- 
wards &  Co.,  in  which  he  thanked  them  for  follow- 
ing his  instructions  so  scrupulously  and  directed 
them  to  keep  it  up. 

This  note  reached  the  office  of  Edwards  &  Co. 
next  morning  while  the  manager  was  with  Miss 
Edwards  in  her  dainty  little  private  office,  holding 
his  daily  conference  with  her  and  experiencing  his 
daily  inward  revolt  against  the  heavy  rug,  the  pretty 
white  and  gold  desk,  the  pictures,  the  flowers,  the 
mirrored  dressing-table,  the  tapestries,  and  the 
velours  curtains.  He  was  about  to  escape  to  his 
actual  business  when  she  said: 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Banks,  I  believe  you  have  a 
small  account  against  a  Mr.  Dudley  Hargrave." 

Mr.  Banks  drew  a  Jong  breath  and  looked  puz- 
zled. 

"We  have,"  he  admitted. 

"I  learn  that  you  are  using  extremely  childish 
methods,  amounting  even  to  petty  persecution,  in 
trying  to  collect  it."  She  was  very  stern  by  this 
time. 

Mr.  Banks  gasped.  Great  Scott !  She  herself 
had  been  the  one  to But  what  was  the  use? 

"We  have,"  he  patiently  confessed. 

"What  are  the  latest  developments  in  the  ac- 
count ?"  she  asked. 

"None,"  said   Mr.   Banks   wearily,   "except   that 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  313 

Miss  Duce  has  been  mailing  him  a  daily  statement, 
I  presume — according  to  your  own  orders,  you 
know."  He  would  have  been  more  or  less  than 
human  had  he  omitted  to  say  that.  'Til  see  if  there 
is  a  remittance  in  this  last  mail." 

She  had  it  upon  her  tongue  to  tell  him  to  drop 
the  affair  if  the  remittance  had  not  come,  but  he 
went  into  his  own  office  before  she  could  say  so. 
She  had  been  giving  the  matter  some  thought  her- 
self. It  did  seem  a  most  undignified  thing  to  do. 
She  felt  heartily  ashamed  of  her  share  in  the  trans- 
action. She  could  not  help  seeing  that  look  of 
confused  appeal  in  the  young  man's  eyes  when  he 
had  been  introduced  to  her.  Remarkably  good  eyes 
they  had  been,  too.  He  was  such  a  nice-looking  chap 
altogether,  and  she  was  sorry  that  she  had  dismissed 
him  so  summarily.  Really,  she  would  like  to  meet 
the  young  man  again.  Not  that  she  cared  particu- 
larly, of  course,  but  she  had  been  so  ungracious. 
Manly-looking  fellow,  he  was.  Almost,  if  not  quite, 
ideal.  Mr.  Banks  came  in  with  the  letter  bearing 
the  Stadium  Club  seal. 

"I  just  got  this,"  he  said,  laying  down  Mr.  Har- 
grave's  sarcastic  note  of  the  previous  evening.  "He 
seems  to  rather  like  the  methods  that  Miss  Duce  is 
pursuing." 

"Exactly,"  said  Miss  Edwards,  glancing  over  Mn 
Hargrave's  second  mistake  with  a  snap  of  the 
jaw.  "I  was  just  about  to  say,  Mr.  Banks,  that 
you  may  tell  Miss  Duce  to  go  ahead." 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Again  Mr.  Banks  gasped — and  told  Miss  Duce  to 
go  ahead,  however. 

Miss  Duce  did — with  great  enthusiasm.  The  fig- 
ure seven  became  the  bane  of  Hargrave's  life. 
Every  time  there  came  a  telephone-call  for  him 
during  that  first  couple  of  days  he  received  the  same 
cabalistic  message,  "Seven  dollars."  That  and  no 
more.  Telegrams  poured  in  for  him  containing  but 
the  two  words,  with  no  signature  whatever.  Let- 
ters of  all  sorts,  plain  letters,  official-looking  letters, 
letters  square  and  oblong,  letters  with  monograms 
and  letters  with  seals,  cheap  manila  envelopes  and 
expensive  bond  envelopes,  letters  yellow,  blue,  pink, 
and  white,  by  special  delivery  and  otherwise,  came 
dumping  in  upon  him  under  various  disguises,  and 
each  and  every  one  of  them  bore  within  but  the  two 
words,  "Seven  dollars."  His  own  friends  brought 
him  some  of  them  with  such  remarks  as:  "Chap 
outside  asked  me  to  bring  this  in  to  you.  Why, 
what's  the  matter  with  you,  old  man?"  Life  was 
becoming  a  misery. 

For  a  time  he  refused  to  answer  telephone-calls 
at  all,  but  he  soon  found  that  this  would  not  do, 
for  he  missed  two  or  three  important  engagements 
by  it.  Every  time  he  went  to  his  room,  he  found  a 
card  upon  the  floor  with  "Seven  dollars"  written 
upon  it.  He  reported  the  matter  to  the  steward 
and  started  an  investigation  afoot  with  little  results. 
A  boy  was  discharged,  but  the  cards  still  appeared, 
and  one  morning  he  awoke  to  find  even  his  window- 


FOR  READING  AND   SPEAKING. 

panes  decorated  with  huge  red  sevens.  The  steward 
himself  almost  lost  his  place  for  that.  Possibly 
Miss  Duce  had  a  very  devoted  friend  among  the 
club  attaches.  You  never  can  tell. 

The  figure  seemed  to  bob  up  by  accident,  too,  at 
every  turn.  He  never  had  imagined  that  there  could 
be  so  many  sevens  in  the  world.  If  he  called  a  cab 
or  mounted  a  street  car,  or  waited  for  an  elevated 
or  a  subway  train,  the  number  seven  was  sure  to 
stare  him  in  the  face.  If  he  sent  a  boy  for  theatre 
tickets  they  almost  invariably  included  a  seat  seven 
or  row  seven  or  box  seven.  There  was  no  escaping 
from  it. 

For  instance,  he  walked  into  his  hatter's  and  asked 
to  see  a  new  style  in  headgear  that  had  just  caught 
the  fancy  of  Dudley's  set. 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Hargrave,"  said  the  obsequious 
dealer.  "Seven,  I  believe." 

"Sir?"  said  Hargrave. 

"Size  seven,  I  believe  you  wear." 

"Well,  yes,"  admitted  Hargrave  with  a  frown,  and 
sought  escape  from  his  own  unreasonable  impa- 
tience by  trying  on  the  hat. 

"The  shape  is  very  becoming  to  you,  sir,"  ob- 
served the  hatter.  "Very  popular,  too.  I've  sold 
seven  of  them  to-day." 

Hargrave  winced,  but  he  fought  down  his  impulse 
to  run,  and  asked  the  price. 

"Seven  dollars,"  said  the  dealer. 

That  was  the  last  straw. 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"I  don't  want  it !"  jerked  Hargrave,  and  walked 
out  of  the  shop,  leaving  the  man  in  a  stupor  of 
amazement. 

That  evening  he  gave  a  most  severe  reprimand  to 
his  waiter.  He  had  a  couple  of  friends  to  a  modest 
dinner  with  him,  and  the  check  the  waiter  brought 
him  to  sign  was  for  an  even  seven  dollars.  More- 
over, there  had  been  seven  blue-points  on  each  plate 
at  the  very  beginning,  and — he  stopped  to  look. 
Yes,  by  George,  the  waiter's  number  was  seven. 

He  was  going  seven-mad.  He  dreamed  sevens, 
ate  sevens,  drank  sevens,  breathed  sevens! 

It  was  nearly  a  week  before  he  again  met  Miss 
Edwards.  This  time  it  was  at  Mrs.  Peyson's  lawn 
party.  He  tried  to  avoid  her,  but,  to  his  surprise, 
in  place  of  serving  him  frappe  she  mulled  him  with 
a  dazzling  smile. 

"I  have  been  wanting  to  meet  you  again,  Mr.  Har- 
grave," she  said  most  cordially.  "Just  now  I  am 
going  with  Captain  Small  for  an  ice,  but  I  want  to 
be  sure  to  have  a  minute's  chat  with  you  before 
the  evening  is  over." 

She  sailed  away  to  rejoin  Captain  Small,  and 
Dudley  looked  after  her  through  coruscating  mental 
pinwheels.  His  head  was  a  merry-go-round.  He 
had  thought  that  she  was  beautiful  at  the  Meadow- 
brook  Club,  but  never  that  she  could  be  so  radiant 
as  this.  He  had  not  conceived  it  possible  that  any 
human  being  should  appear  so  unutterably  lovely. 

He  was  just  about  to  light  a  cigar  and  seek  such 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


solace  as  he  might  when  she  suddenly  appeared 
from  nowhere  and  slipped  in  to  sit  down  beside 
him. 

'Tm  so  glad  to  have  this  chance  meeting,"  she 
began  in  a  delightfully  frank  tone.  "I  want  to 
apologize  for  my  rudeness  of  the  other  day.  More- 
over, I  find,  since  returning  here,  that  we  know  a 
great  many  of  the  same  people,  and  that  we  shall 
be  constantly  meeting.  It  would  be  perfectly  silly 
to  be  at  outs,  like  children;  so  let's  draw  a  strict 
line  between  my  social  life  and  my  —  my  enforced 
business  self." 

Would  he?  He  took  the  hand  that  this  remark- 
ably direct  young  woman  offered  him,  and  gripped 
it  with  entirely  unnecessary  warmth  and  eagerness. 
Would  he! 

"Bully  !"  said  he,  and  she  cast  up  at  him  a  bright 
little  glance  that  made  the  pinwheels  and  the  merry- 
go-round  start  whirling  again  at  a  tremendous  rate. 
Would  he  ! 

"It's  perfectly  splendid,"  she  commented,  gazing 
out  at  the  stars  which  strove  to  vie  with  Mrs.  Pey- 
son's  myriad  of  tiny  electric  bulbs.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  the  reader  is  bearing  in  mind  the  youth  of  Miss 
Edwards.  "It's  just  as  if  we  were  each  of  us  two 
separate  people.  Here  we  may  be  just  as  jolly  good 
friends  as  may  happen,  while,  in  the  mean  time, 
any  little  business  matter  that  we  might  have  be- 
tween us  can  take  its  normal  course  without  any 
bearing  whatever  upon  our  social  relations." 


318  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

There  was  just  the  slightest  perceptible  tilt  to  the 
Goddess  of  Liberty  chin  as  she  said  that,  and  Dud- 
ley immediately  interpreted  it  to  mean  that  he  would 
have  to  pay  the  seven  dollars.  As  immediately  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  not.  The  annoy- 
ance, had  it  been  but  an  ordinary  bit  of  odd  spite- 
work,  would  have  been  not  only  inconceivable  but 
unendurable.  Now,  however,  there  was  a  zest  to  it. 

"Very  well,"  he  acquiesced.  "I  see  that  your 
mind  is  made  up,  and  mine  is  equally  so.  Beautiful 
grounds  Mrs.  Peyson  has." 

"Lovely,"  she  agreed.     "Shall  we  walk?" 

They  walked.  Fairyland  was  a  slum  district  as 
compared  to  this.  Dudley  walked  on  a  lawn  that 
had  grown  so  velvety  because  Miss  Edwards  was 
to  tread  upon  it;  he  walked  under  a  sky  that  bor- 
rowed its  sparkle  from  the  eyes  of  Miss  Edwards ; 
he  walked  amid  a  throng  of  mere  phantoms  that 
were  happy  and  gay  and  gorgeously  gowned 
because  Miss  Edwards  was  among  them. 

That  night  he  had  a  troubled  vision.  He  dreamed 
that  he  was  leading  Miss  Abigail  Edwards  to  the 
altar,  but  that  there  were  seven  of  her  and  each 
one  had  a  dollar-mark  painted  large  upon  the  back 
of  her  gown. 

He  awoke  with  a  serious  purpose  in  life.  He 
meant  to  marry  Miss  Edwards.  But  there  was  no 
thought  of  ever  paying  that  money.  It  could  not 
be  paid.  It  had  been  lifted  into  the  plane  where 
to  pay  it  would  be  to  let  go  of  that  superiority  which 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


319 


is  man's  heritage.  It  would  never  do  to  be  beaten 
by  a  woman.  He  must  marry  her  in  spite  of  the 
seven  dollars.  The  suddenness  of  his  determina- 
tion did  not  strike  him  as  being  at  all  strange  or 
inconsistent,  in  spite  of  his  often-asserted  disbelief 
in  love  at  first  sight.  It  was  not  a  case  of  love  at 
first  sight,  he  argued,  because  she  was  exactly  the 
girl  he  had  always  loved. 

He  met  Miss  Edwards  frequently  after  that,  but, 
strangely  enough,  though  he  often  angled  for  it, 
she  never  intimated  that  he  would  be  welcome  at 
the  Edwards'  home  until  long  after  his  athletic 
trainer  had  warned  him  that  he  was  losing  weight. 

"I  had  begun  to  think  that  I  was  blacklisted,"  he 
protested  in  accepting  the  invitation  to  her  informal 
party. 

"I  don't  see  what  could  have  given  you  that  idea," 
she  demurely  replied.  "You  see,  I've  a  lot  of 
absurd  little  rigid  rules  about  most  things,  and  this 
is  exactly  the  seventh  time  that  we  have  met." 

"Oh,"  said  he,  beginning  to  "toad  up"  a  little 
over  the  implied  compliment,  "I  see.  Also,  by  the 
way,  I  thought  that  we  were  never  to  mention 
business." 

"Pray  explain,"  she  warned  him.  "Where  is  the 
connection  ?" 

"Oh,  none,"  he   forlornly  admitted. 

Seven  dollars!  He  would  never  pay  it,  not  if 
he  lived  to  be  seven  thousand  years  old !  However, 
he  was  glad  of  the  chance  to  call  at  the  Edwards' 


320  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

home,  where  dusky  Aunt  Tillie,  fortunately  for  him, 
approved  of  him ;  and  Aunt  Tillie's  approval  meant 
something.  Aunt  Tillie  had  come  up  with  the 
Edwards'  fortunes.  She  had  been  maid  to  Miss 
Abigail's  mother  when  the  latter  was  in  her  teens. 
She  had  nursed  Miss  Abigail  when  Miss  Abigail  was 
an  infant,  and  had  spanked  Miss  Abigail  when  Miss 
Abigail  had  been  naughty.  She  had  stern  rights  in 
the  household,  and  her  scrutiny  of  young  men  callers 
was  one  that  went  far,  far  beneath  the  cuticle. 
Miss  Abigail  waited  with  more  anxiety  for  Aunt 
Tillie's  verdict  than  for  that  of  the  own-blood  auntie 
with  whom  she  lived,  and  was  much  relieved  to  find 
it  favorable. 

Miss  Edwards  herself  was  increasingly  glad  to 
see  him.  There  was  no  let-up,  however,  in  the 
pressure  that  was  put  upon  Mr.  Hargrave  by 
Edwards  &  Co.  to  remind  him  of  that  little  bill. 
The  flood  of  letters,  telegrams,  telephone  messages 
and  delivery-boys  had  suddenly  ceased,  but  the 
annoyance  only  took  a  new  form.  This  time  it  was 
that  of  personal  collection.  He  could  not  go  any- 
where but  that  some  one  tapped  him  on  the  arm 
and  thrust  into  his  hand  a  statement  from  Edwards 
&  Co.  with  the  amount,  "Seven  dollars,"  and  the 
words,  "Past  due.  Please  remit,"  stamped  upon  it 
in  beg  red  letters.  In  theatre-lobbies,  on  street 
corners,  at  the  polo  meet,  everywhere,  in  fact,  that 
he  appeared  in  public,  this  happened  to  him,  and 
he  could  not  guard  himself  against  it.  The  mes- 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  321 

sengers  were  always  different ;  usually  well-dressed, 
innocuous-looking  young  men ;  once  a  young  lady ; 
once  an  old  man  who  looked  like  a  retired  professor 
or  lecturer;  once  an  old  woman;  several  times 
boys,  and  once  a  little  girl. 

Sometimes  this  happened  when  he  was  with  Miss 
Edwards,  in  which  case  she  always  politely  ignored 
it,  although  he  fancied  that,  turning  suddenly,  he 
could  see  her  suppressing  a  smile.  This  was  enabled 
to  happen  very  frequently  now,  from  the  fact  that 
they  were  nearly  always  together.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  Miss  Edwards  began  to  miss  her  most  import- 
ant debtor  all  the  time  that  he  was  away  from  her, 
and  they  were  both  heartily  tired  of  that  little  bill. 
They  wished  that  it  was  out  of  the  way,  but  neither 
one  could  afford  to  do  away  with  it.  It  meant  too 
much.  Even  this,  however,  could  not  keep  off  the 
inevitable.  Tinder  must  burn  when  the  spark  falls, 
and  at  last  he  ventured  to  speak  the  thing  that  was 
on  his  mind. 

He  did  it  beautifully,  too.  He  found  some  little 
trouble  in  getting  started.  He  stammered  a  trifle 
in  the  preliminaries  before  he  conquered  the  quake 
in  his  knees,  but,  once  into  the  swing  of  it,  he  poured 
out  a  magnificent  flood  of  oratory,  clasping  her  hand 
at  precisely  the  proper  moment,  and  telling  her  all 
the  fervid  things  that  modern  young  lovers  can  find 
nerve  enough  to  phrase.  Miss  Edwards  waited 
breathlessly  until  he  had  finished,  and  then,  still 
permitting  him  to  hold  her  hand,  she  looked  up  at 
him  with  half-moist  lashes. 


322  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

"You  do  it  so  exquisitely,"  she  sighed.  "But 
how  about  that  seven  dollars?" 

"Abigail !"  he  pleaded.  "You  wouldn't  let  a  little 
thing  like  that  stand  between  us  and  our  happiness, 
would  you?" 

"Would  you?"  she  queried  in  turn. 

That  rather  stopped  the  argument.  They  looked 
at  each  other  in  painful  uncertainty  for  a  time.  All 
at  once  this  seven  dollars  assumed  a  mountainous 
proportion.  It  was  a  matter  of  mastership  now,  and 
too  serious  for  either  argument  or  evasion.  They 
released  their  hand-clasp  with  a  mutual  impulse.  He 
noticed  that  little  tilt  of  the  chin  and  she  saw  that 
little  muscular  contraction  which,  under  the  jaws 
of  a  man,  means  "no  thoroughfare."  They  chatted 
about  the  weather  and  such  things  for  the  balance 
of  his  brief  call. 

When  he  left,  Miss  Abigail  Edwards  went 
straight  up  to  her  room  and  cried.  Mr.  Dudley 
Hargrave  went  out  on  the  street  and  said  impul- 
sive, unrestrained  things  under  his  breath.  Miss 
Edwards  was  just  finishing  up  with  her  cry  when 
Aunt  Tillie  came  in  to  take  down  her  hair. 

Aunt  Tillie  was  exactly  the  shade  of  walnut  stain, 
and  her  functions  were  not  only  those  of  maid  and 
guardian,  but  of  confidential  adviser,  censor,  -and 
firm  foster-parent.  To-night,  her  quick  intuition, 
strengthened  by  many  years  of  affection,  taught  her 
that  about  all  five  functions  were  urgently  in  need. 

"Looka  heah,  honey,"   she  began,  turning  Miss 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


323 


Abigail's  tear-stained  face  arpund  to  her  with  firm 
hands;  "whad  yo'-all  been  doin'?  Now,  yo'  doan' 
need  say  ary  word :  Ah  knows  whad  de  matteh.  Yo' 
been  quawlin'  wid  Misto'  Hahgrave.  I  know,  'case 
I  done  seen  him  stamp  out  dat  doo'  madder'n  a 
hohnet.  Yo'  done  put  some  kine  o'  bug  in  his  eah 
an'  sen'  'im  away.  Now  yo'-all  jes'  sen'  foh  this 
yah  young  man  to  come  totin'  right  back.  He  jes' 
th'  kin'  o'  young  man  Marse  Edwards  would  pick 
out  foh  yo',  and  he  jes'  th'  kin'  o'  young  man  yo' 
pick  out  foh  yo'seff.  Yo'  Aunt  Tillie  ain'  blin', 
chile.  Ah  knows  he  de  man  yo'-all  wants,  and  ef 
yo'  doan'  git  'im  yo'  gwan  be  plumb  suah  mis'ble 
all  de  days  o'  yo'  bohn  life.  Now,  yo'  done  tell  me 
whad  this  yah  trouble  all  about,  an'  Aunt  Tillie 
gwan  fix  it  all  up,  an'  if  yo'  doan'  do  jes'  de  thing 
whad  yo'  ought'er  do,  Aunt  Tillie  gwan  pick  yo'  up 
an'  spank  yo'  lak'  she  done  when  yo'  wall  a  young 
'un." 

Miss  Abigail  laughed.  It  was  such  a  relief  to  find 
that  she  actually  had  a  friend  left  in  this  miserable, 
gray  world. 

"Well,  Aunt  Tillie,  you  won't  be  able  to  under- 
stand it,"  she  explained,  "because  I  don't  understand 
it  very  well  myself,  but  I'm  going  to  tell  you  all 
about  it,  just  the  same.  I  think  it  will  do  me  good." 

So  she  did.  Whether  Aunt  Tillie  comprehended 
the  psychological  features  of  it,  whether  she  under- 
stood the  perversity  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  it 
all,  or  the  underlying  principle  of  mastery  it 


324  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

involved,  Miss  Abigail  could  not  have  told  for  the 
life  of  her,  but  after  the  talk  was  over  Aunt  Tillie 
preserved  a  sphinx-like  silence  while  she  braided 
her  mistress's  hair  and  performed  the  many  other 
grateful  offices,  upon  the  precision  of  which  she  had 
for  so  many  years  prided  herself. 

"An'  now,  honey,"  she  said,  when  she  was  ready 
to  go,  "yo'  jes'  think  dis  hyah  all  oveh,  an'  tomah' 
mebbe  yo'  be  'shamed  o'  yo'seff." 

Miss  Abigail  did  think  differently  about  it  the 
next  day,  but  in  a  way  she  had  scarcely  expected, 
for  along  about  two  o'clock  Mr.  Banks  broke  her 
spell  of  worry  and  indecision  just  as  she  was  almost 
decided  to  perform  a  painful  operation  that  would 
involve  the  loss  of  her  backbone. 

"It  may  interest  you  to  know -that  Mr.  Hargrave 
has  paid  that  seven-dollar  bill,"  he  telephoned  her. 

The  thanks  that  she  gave  him  were  very  brief,  for 
she  was  in  a  breathless  hurry  to  use  the  telephone 
for  another  message — to  the  Stadium  Club. 

Yes,  Mr.  Hargrave  was  in.  Yes,  he  would  be 
there  in  a  moment.  She  had  never  heard  a  voice 
with  such  exquisite  timbre  as  that  which  presently 
thrilled  her. 

"This  is  Dudley  Hargrave,"  he  announced. 

"Well,  this  is  Abigail  Beatrice  Cecilia  Dorothea 
Evangelina  Florodora  Clear-Down-to-Xantippe  Ed- 
wards. I  just  called  you  up  to  tell  you  that  you 
are  a  very  nice  boy." 

"Indeed !"  he  conservatively  replied,  not  knowing 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  325 

what  next  to  expect.  "I'm  so  glad  you've  come 
around  to  that  opinion." 

"Oh,  I  always  thought  that,"  she  assured  him; 
"and  I'll  tell  you  something  else.  You  may  come 
over  this  evening  and  ask  me  the  same  question  you 
did  last  night,  if  you  like." 

"Where  are  you?"  he  asked  with  a  sudden  new 
vibration  in  his  voice. 

"At  home,"  she  answered. 

"I'm  coming  now,"  he  vigorously  announced,  and 
hung  up  the  receiver. 

But  he  didn't  ask  her  the  question.  When  he 
was  ushered  into  the  room  where  she  stood  waiting 
for  him,  he  simply  grabbed  her.  By  and  by  she 
raised  her  head  from  where  it  had  been  comfortably 
resting,  and  twisted  the  top  button  of  his  coat 
around  and  around. 

"After  all,"  she  confessed,  "I'm  sorry  now  that 
I  was  not  the  one  to  give  in.  It  was  magnanimous 
of  you,  Dudley,  but  it's  funny,  isn't  it,  that  I  wish 
you  hadn't  paid  that  bill  ?  Just  an  hour  longer  and 
I  would  have  capitulated  myself." 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  he  replied,  holding  her 
off  from  him  in  amazement.  "I  never  paid  the — 
the  seven,  if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"You  didn't !"  For  a  moment  she  was  breathless 
with  amazement.  "Why,  Mr.  Banks  told  me  that 
you  did !  I'm  going  to  telephone  him  and  find  out 
about  it." 

There  was  an  instant  of  half-embarrassed  silence 


326  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

between  them,  but  before  it  had  lasted  long  enough 
to  be  serious,  this  remarkably  natural  and  direct 
young  woman  took  his  wrist  with  a  happy  laugh  and 
drew  his  arm  into  the  place  it  fitted  so  snugly. 

"It  doesn't  make  any  difference  now,"  she  said, 
"because  we've  got  each  other  and  we're  going  to 
keep  each  other.  But  come  on ;  we'll  find  out  about 
it  together." 

Both  puzzled,  they  walked  over  to  the  telephone 
and  she  called  up  Mr.  Banks. 

No,  she  was  not  mistaken.  The  account  had  been 
paid.  No,  it  had  not  been  paid  by  Mr.  Hargrave's 
check.  A  post-office  money  order  had  come,  in  Mr. 
Hargrave's  name,  to  the  amount  of  seven  dollars. 
They  had  simply  applied  it  to  his  account  on  the 
books  and  mailed  him  a  formal  receipt  for  it. 

They  stood  in  perplexity  until  Miss  Abigail — 
turning  swiftly  at  a  rustling  sound  her  ear  detected 
— caught  Aunt  Tillie's  happy  brown  face  disappear- 
ing from  between  the  folds  of  the  portieres,  and 
then  she  darted  after  her  very  best  friend,  dragging 
the  bewildered  but  ecstatic  Dudley  along  with  her. 

Aunt  Tillie  had  paid  that  seven-dollar  bill. 

The  Twins. 
HENRY  S.  LEIGH. 

IN  form  and  feature,  face  and  limb, 

I  grew  so  like  my  brother, 
That  folks  got  taking  me  for  him, 

And  each  for  one  another. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

It  puzzled  all  our  kith  and  kin, 
It  reached  a  fearful  pitch; 

For  one  of  us  was  born  a  twin, 
And  not  a  soul  knew  which. 

One  day,  to  make  the  matter  worse, 

Before  our  names  were  fixed, 
As  we  were  being  washed  by  nurse, 

We  got  completely  mixed; 
And  thus,  you  see,  by  Fate's  decree, 

Or  rather  nurse's  whim, 
My  brother  John  got  christened  me, 

And  I  got  christened  him. 

This   fatal  likeness  ever  dogged 

My  footsteps  wflen  at  school, 
And  I  was  always  getting  flogged 

When  John  turned  out  a  fool. 
I  put  this  question,  fruitlessly, 

To  every  one  I  knew : 
"What  would  you  do,  if  you  were  me, 

To  prove  that  you  were  you?" 

Our  close  resemblance  turned  the  tide 

Of  my  domestic  life, 
For  somehow,  my  intended  bride 

Became  my  brother's  wife. 
In  fact,  year  after  year  the  same 

Absurd  mistakes  went  on, 
And  when  I  died,  the  neighbors  came 

And  buried  brother  John. 


327 


328  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Patriotic  Remnants. 
STRICKLAND  W.  GILLILAN. 

From  "Including  Finnigan."    Copyright,  1908,  by  Strick- 
land W.  Gillilan.     Reprinted  by  special  permission. 

THE  evening  of  the  Fourth  has  came, 

But  where  is  Willie's  ear  ? 
The  one  that's  left  looks  quite  the  same, 

But  where  is  Willie's  ear? 
This  morning  when  he  went  to  play 
With  cannon-crackers  all  the  day, 
His  lugs  were  twain ;  now  where,  I  pray, 

Is  Willie's  other  ear? 

Upon  the   Fourth  the  sun  has  set, 

But  where  is  Albert's  nose? 
We've  all  our  little  darlings  yet, 

But  where  is  Albert's  nose? 
When  to  the  fray  he  went  at  morn, 
With  matches,  punk,  and  powder-horn, 
He'd  all  the  things  with  which  we're  born — 

Now  where  is  Albert's  nose? 

The  gloaming's  started  in  to  gloam, 

But  where  is  Charlie's  leg? 
The  rest  of  Charles  has  all  came  home, 

But  where  is  Charlie's  leg? 
The  man  who  drave  the  ambu-lance 
Said  laughingly,  "No  more  he'll  dance, 
But  'twill  be  cheaper  buying  pance" — 

Ah,  where  is  Charlie's  leg? 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  329 

Thus  every  Fourth  our  darlings  lose 

Some  features  or  a  limb ; 
Tis  'most  enough  to  cause  the  blues 

And  make  life  hard  and  grim. 
But  many  be  their  limbs  or  few 
Compared  with  those  that  on  them  grew, 
We'll  shout  for  Yankee-doodle-do 

From  dawn  till  dusktide  dim ! 


Poor  Dear  Mamma. 

RUDYARD   KIPLING. 
From  "The  Story  of  the  Gadsbys." 

Scene:  Interior  of  Miss  MINNIE  THREEGAN'S  bedroom 
at  Simla.  Miss  THREEGAN,  in  window-seat,  turning  over 
a  drawerful  of  things.  Miss  EMMA  DEERCOURT,  bosom 
friend,  who  has  come  to  spend  the  day,  sitting  on  the  bed, 
manipulating  the  bodice  of  a  ballroom  frock  and  a  bunch 
of  artificial  lilies  of  the  valley.  Time,  5.30  P.M.  on  a  hot 
May  afternoon. 

Miss  Dcercourt.  And  he  said:  "I  shall  never  for- 
get this  dance,"  and,  of  course,  I  said :  "Oh !  how 
can  you  be  so  silly !"  Do  you  think  he  meant  any- 
thing, dear? 

Miss  Thrcegan  (extracting  long  lavendar  silk 
stocking  from  the  rubbish).  You  know  him  better 
than  /  do. 

Miss  D.  Oh,  do  be  sympathetic,  Minnie !  I'm 
sure  he  does.  At  least  I  would  be  sure  if  he  wasn't 
always  riding  with  that  odious  Mrs.  Hagan. 

Miss  T.    I  suppose  so.    How  does  one  manage  to 


330 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


dance  through  one's  heels  first?  Look  at  this — 
isn't  it  shameful?  (Spreads  stocking-heel  on  open 
hand  for  inspection.) 

Miss  D.  Never  mind  that!  You  can't  mend  it. 
Help  me  with  this  hateful  bodice.  I've  run  the 
string  so,  and  I've  run  the  string  so,  and  I  cant 
make  the  fulness  come  right.  Where  would  you  put 
this?  (Waves  lilies  of  the  valley.) 

Miss  T.    As  high  up  on  the  shoulder  as  possible. 

Miss  D.  Am  I  quite  tall  enough?  I  know  it 
makes  May  Olger  look  lop-sided. 

Miss  T.  Yes,  but  May  hasn't  your  shoulders. 
Hers  are  like  a  hock-bottle. 

Bearer  (rapping  at  door).    Captain  Sahib,  aya. 

Miss  D.  (jumping  up  wildly,  and  hunting  for 
body,  which  she  has  discarded  owing  to  the  heat 
of  the  day).  Captain  Sahib!  What  Captain  Sahib? 
Oh,  good  gracious,  and  I'm  only  half  dressed! 
Well,  I  sha'n't  bother. 

Miss  T.  (calmly).  You  needn't!  It  isn't  for  us. 
That's  Captain  Gadsby.  He  is  going  for  a  ride  with 
Mamma.  He  generally  comes  five  days  out  of  the 
seven. 

Agonized  Voice  (from  an  inner  apartment}. 
Minnie,  run  out  and  give  Captain  Gadsby  some  tea, 
and  tell  him  I  shall  be  ready  in  ten  minutes;  and, 
O  Minnie,  come  to  me  an  instant,  there's  a  dear 
girl! 

Miss  T.  Oh,  bother !  (Aloud.)  Very  well,  Mamma. 

[E.vit,  and  reappears,  after  fire  minutes, 

flushed  and  rubbing  her  fingers. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


331 


Miss  D.    You  look  pink.    What  has  happened  ? 

Miss  T.  (in  a  stage  whisper).  A  twenty-four- 
inch  waist,  and  she  won't  let  it  out.  Where  arc  my 
bangles?  (Rummages  on  the  toilet-table,  and  dabs 
at  her  hair  with  a  brush  in  the  interval.) 

Miss  D.  Who  is  this  Captain  Gadsby?  I  don't 
think  I've  met  him. 

Miss  T.  You  must  have.  He  belongs  to  the  Har- 
rar  set.  I've  danced  with  him,  but  I've  never  talked 
to  him.  He's  a  big  yellow  man,  just  like  a  newly- 
hatched  chicken,  with  an  e-normous  mustache.  He 
walks  like  this  (imitates  Cavalry  swagger),  and  he 
goes  "Ha — Hmmm !"  deep  down  in  his  throat  when 
he  can't  think  of  anything  to  say.  Mamma  likes 
him.  I  don't. 

Miss  D.  (abstractedly).  Does  he  wax  that  mus- 
tache ? 

Miss  T.  (busy  with  powder-puff).  Yes,  I  think 
so.  Why? 

Miss  D.  (bending  over  the  bodice  and  sewing  furi- 
ously). Oh,  nothing — only 

Miss  T.  (sternly).  Only  what?  Out  with  it, 
Emma. 

Miss  D.  Well,  May  Olger — she's  engaged  to  Mr. 
Charteris,  you  know — said — Promise  you  won't 
repeat  this? 

Miss  T.    Yes,  I  promise.    What  did  she  say? 

Miss  D.  That — that  being  kissed  (with  a  rush), 
by  a  man  who  didn't  wax  his  mustache  was — like 
eating  an  egg  without  salt. 

Miss  T.  (at  her  full  height,  with  crushing  scorn). 


332 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


May  Olger  is  a  horrid,  nasty  Thing,  and  you  can 
tell  her  I  said  so.  I'm  glad  she  doesn't  belong  to 
my  set — I  must  go  and  feed  this  man!  Do  I  look 
presentable  ? 

Miss  D.  Yes,  perfectly.  Be  quick  and  hand  him 
over  to  your  Mother,  and  then  we  can  talk.  /  shall 
listen  at  the  door  to  hear  what  you  say  to  him. 

Miss  T.  Sure  I  don't  care.  I'm  not  afraid  of 
Captain  Gadsby. 

[In  proof  of  this  sitings  into  drawing-room  with  a 
mannish  stride  followed  by  two  short  steps, 
which  produces  the  effect  of  a  restive  horse 
entering.  Misses  CAPTAIN  GADSBY,  who  is  sit- 
ting in  the  shadow  of  the  window-curtain,  and 
gazes  round  helplessly. 

Captain  Gadsby  (aside).  The  filly,  by  Jove! 
Must  ha'  picked  up  that  action  from  the  sire. 
(Aloud,  rising.)  Good  evening,  Miss  Threegan. 

Miss  T.  (conscious  that  she  is  flushing).  Good- 
evening,  Captain  Gadsby.  Mamma  told  me  to  say 
that  she  will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes.  Won't 
you  have  some  tea?  (Aside.)  I  hope  Mamma  will 
be  quick.  What  am  I  to  say  to  the  creature? 
(Aloud  and  abruptly.)  Milk  and  sugar? 

Capt.  G.  No  sugar,  tha-anks,  and  very  little  milk. 
Ha-Hmmm. 

Miss  T.  (aside).  If  he's  going  to  do  that,  I'm 
lost.  I  shall  laugh.  I  know  I  shall ! 

Capt.  G.  (pulling  at  his  mustache  and  watching 
it  sideways  down  his  nose).  Ha-Hmmm.  (Aside.) 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


333 


Wonder  what  the  little  beast  can  talk  about.  Must 
make  a  shot  at  it. 

Miss  T.  fnsirfc}.  Oh,  this  is  agonizing.  I  must 
say  something. 

Both  Together.     Have  you  been 

Capt.  G.  I  beg  your  pardon.  You  were  going  to 
say 

Miss  T.  (who  has  been  watching  the  mustache 
with  awed  fascination).  Won't  you  have  some 
eggs? 

Capt.  G.  (looking  bewilderedly  at  the  tea-table). 
Eggs!  (Aside.)  O  Hades!  She  must  have  a  nur- 
sery-tea at  this  hour.  S'pose  they've  wiped  her 
mouth  and  sent  her  to  me  while  the  Mother  is  get- 
ting on  her  duds.  (Aloud.)  No,  thanks. 

Miss  T.  (crimson  with  confusion).  Oh!  I 
didn't  mean  that.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  mti — eggs 
for  an  instant.  I  mean  salt.  Won't  you  have  some 
sa — sweets?  (Aside.)  He'll  think  me  a  raving 
lunatic.  I  wish  Mamma  would  come. 

Capt.  G.  (aside).  It  zvas  a  nursery-tea  and  she's 
ashamed  of  it.  By  Jove !  She  doesn't  look  half 
bad  when  she  colors  up  like  that.  (Aloud.)  Do 
you  ride  much?  I've  never  seen  you  on  the  Mall. 

Miss  T.  (aside).  I  haven't  passed  him  more  than 
fifty  times.  (Aloud.)  Nearly  every  day. 

Capt .  G.  By  Jove  !  I  didn't  know  that.  H-Hmmm ! 
(Pulls  at  his  mustache  and  is  silent  for  forty  sec- 
onds.) 

Miss  T.    (desperately,  and  wondering  what  will 


334 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


happen  next).  It  looks  beautiful.  I  shouldn't 
touch  it  if  I  were  you.  (Aside.)  It's  all  Mamma's 
fault  for  not  coming  before.  I  will  be  rude ! 

Capt.  G.  (bronzing  under  the  tan  and  bringing 
down  his  hand  very  quickly) .  Eh!  Wha-at!  Oh, 
yes!  Ha!  Ha!  (Laughs  uneasily.)  (Aside.) 
Well,  of  all  the  dashed  cheek !  I  never  had  a  woman 
say  that  to  me  yet.  She  must  be  a  cool  hand  or 
else Ah !  that  nursery-tea ! 

Voice  from  the  Unknown.    Tchk !   Tchk !   Tchk ! 

Capt.  G.    Good  gracious  !    What's  that  ? 

Miss  T.  The  dog,  I  think.  (Aside.)  Emma  has 
been  listening,  and  I'll  never  forgive  her! 

Capt.  G.  (aside).  They  don't  keep  dogs  here. 
(Aloud.)  Didn't  sound  like  a  dog,  did  it? 

Mist  T.  Then  it  must  have  been  the  cat.  Let's 
go  in*  t>  the  veranda.  What  a  lovely  evening  it  is ! 
[Steps  into  veranda  and  looks  out  across  the 
hills  into  sunset.  The  Captain  follows. 

Capt.  G.  (aside).  Superb  eyes!  I  wonder  that  I 
aever  noticed  them  before!  (Aloud.)  There's 
tjoing  to  be  a  dance  at  Viceregal  Lodge  on  Wednes- 
day. Can  you  spare  me  one? 

Miss  T.  (shortly).  No!  I  don't  want  any  of 
your  charity-dances.  You  only  ask  me  because 
Manima  told  you  to.  I  hop  and  I  bump.  You  know 
I  do! 

Capt.  G.  (aside).  That's  true,  but  little  girls 
shouldn't  understand  these  things.  (Aloud.)  No, 
on  my  word,  I  don't.  You  dance  beautifully. 

Miss  T.     Then  why  do  you  always  stand  out 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  335 

after  half  a  dozen  turns?  I  thought  officers  in  the 
Army  didn't  tell  fibs. 

Capt.  G.  It  wasn't  a  fib,  believe  me.  I  really  do 
want  the  pleasure  of  a  dance  with  you. 

Miss  T.  (wickedly).  Why?  Won't  Mamma 
dance  with  you  any  more  ? 

Capt.  G.  (more  earnestly  than  the  necessity  de- 
mands). I  wasn't  thinking  of  your  Mother.  (Aside.) 
You  little  vixen ! 

Miss  T.  (still  looking  out  of  the  window).  Eh? 
Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing else. 

Capt.  G.  (aside).  Well!  I  wonder  what  she'll 
say  next.  I've  never  known  a  woman  treat  me 
like  this  before.  I  might  be —  -  Dash  it,  I  might 
be  an  Infantry  subaltern!  (Aloud.)  Oh,  please 
don't  trouble.  I'm  not  worth  thinking  about.  Isn't 
your  Mother  ready  yet? 

Miss  T.  I  should  think  so ;  but  promise  me,  Cap- 
tain Gadsby,  you  won't  take  poor  dear  Mamma 
twice  round  Jakko  any  more.  It  tires  her  so. 

Capt.  G.    She  says  that  no  exercise  tires  her. 

Miss  T.  Yes,  but  she  suffers  afterwards.  You 
don't  know  what  rheumatism  is,  and  you  oughtn't 
to  keep  her  out  so  late,  when  it  gets  chill  in  the 
evenings. 

Capt.  G.  (aside).  Rheumatism!  I  thought  she 
came  off  her  horse  rather  in  a  bunch.  Whew ! 
One  lives  and  learns.  (Aloud.)  I'm  sorry  to  hear 
that.  She  hasn't  mentioned  it  to  me. 


336  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Miss  T.  (flurried).  Of  course  not!  Poor  dear 
Mamma  never  would.  And  you  mustn't  say  that  I 
told  you  either.  Promise  me  that  you  won't.  Oh, 
Captain  Gadsby,  promise  me  you  won't ! 

Capt.  G.  I  am  dumb,  or — I  shall  be  as  soon  as 
you've  given  me  that  dance,  and  another — if  you 
can  trouble  yourself  to  think  about  me  for  a  minute. 

Miss  T.  But  you  won't  like  it  one  little  bit. 
You'll  be  awfully  sorry  afterwards. 

Capt.  G.  I  shall  like  it  above  all  things,  and  I 
shall  only  be  sorry  that  I  didn't  get  more.  (Aside.) 
Now  what  in  the  world  am  I  saying? 

Miss  T.  Very  well.  You  will  have  only  your- 
self to  thank  if  your  toes  are  trodden  on.  Shall  we 
say  Seven? 

Capt.  G.    And  Eleven. 

Poor  Dear  Mamma  (entering,  habited,  hatted, 
and  booted).  Ah,  Captain  Gadsby !  Sorry  to  keep 
you  waiting.  Hope  you  haven't  been  bored.  My 
little  girl  been  talking  to  you? 

Miss  T.  (aside).  I'm  not  sorry  I  spoke  about 
the  rheumatism.  I'm  not!  I'm  NOT!  I  only  wish 
I'd  mentioned  the  corns  too. 

Capt.  G.  (aside).  What  a  shame!  I  wonder 
how  old  she  is.  It  never  occurred  to  me  before. 

Miss  T.  (aside).  Nice  man!  (Aloud.)  Good- 
bye, Captain  Gadsby.  (Aside.)  What  a  huge  hand 
and  what  a  squeeze !  I  don't  suppose  he  meant  it, 
but  he  has  driven  the  rings  into  irv  fin-  vrs. 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


337 


INTERVAL  OF  EIGHT   WEEKS. 

Scene :  Exterior  of  New  Simla  Library  on  a  foggy  eve- 
ning. Miss  THREEGAN  and  Miss  DEERCOURT  meet  among 
the  'rickshaws.  Miss  T.  is  carrying  a  bundle  of  books 
under  her  left  arm. 

Miss  D.  (level  intonation.)    Well? 

Miss  T.  (ascending  intonation).    Well? 

Miss  D.  (capturing  her  friend's  left  arm,  taking 
away  all  the  books,  placing  books  in  'rickshaw, 
rctnrning  to  arm,  securing  hand  by  the  third  finger 
and  investigating).  Well!  You  bad  girl!  And 
you  never  told  me. 

Miss  T.  (demurely).  He — he — he  only  spoke 
yesterday  afternoon. 

Miss  D.  Bless  you,  dear !  And  I'm  to  be  brides- 
maid, aren't  I?  You  know  you  promised  ever  so 
long  ago. 

Miss  T.  Of  course.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it 
to-morrow.  (Gets  into  'rickshaw.)  O  Emma! 

Miss  D.  (with  intense  interest).     Yes,  dear? 

Miss  T.  (piano).  It's  quite  true — about — the — 
egg- 

MissD.    What  egg? 

Miss  T.  (pianissimo  prestissimo).  The  egg 
without  the  salt. 


338  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

A  Department-Store  Ditty. 
CHARLES  T.  GRILLEY. 

From  "Jingles  of  a  Jester."  Copyright,  1907.  Re- 
printed by  special  permission  of  the  author  and  the  pub- 
lishers, Pearson  Brothers. 

OH,  how  well  do  I  remember ! 
'Twas  a  warm  day  in  September 
That  I  foolishly  went  shopping 
With  my  wife,  a  two-months'  bride. 
As  o'er  the  trip  I  ponder, 
I  vow  ne'er  again  to  wander 
Into  one  of  those  department-stores, 
No  matter  who  my  guide. 

She  carefully  approached  me, 

And  she  wheedled  and  she  coaxed  me 

To  go  along  and  help  select 

A  pattern  for  a  dress. 

Little  did  I  think  on  starting 

Of  how  near  we'd  come  to  parting 

Before  we  ended  up  that  trip 

Of  sorrow  and  distress. 

It  was  " Bargain  Day,"  she  told  me, 
As  the  store  we  entered  boldly; 
I  thought  there  was  a  riot 
When  we  got  inside  the  door. 
There  were  females  of  all  ages, 
Some  who  ought  to  be  in  cages ; 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING.  339 

For  they  fought  like  wild  hyenas 
Rushing  madly  through  the  store. 


My  heart  was  palpitating, 
And  my  eyes  with  fear  dilating, 
As  I  gazed  in  terror  at  the  scene 
Which  now  before  me  passed. 
Like  a  storm  upon  the  ocean 
Was  this  terrible  commotion, 
And  something  seemed  to  tell  me 
That  this  moment  was  our  last. 

Into  this  vortex  whirling, 

With  my  coat-tails  round  me  curling, 

We  plunged  together,  vowing 

That  we'd  get  that  dress  or  die. 

But  what  a  foolish  notion ! 

When  we  struck  that  whirlpool  motion 

We  were  rudely  torn  asunder, 

With  no  chance  to  say  "Good-by !" 

A  big  fat  woman  grasped  me, 
And  in  her  arms  she  clasped  me, 
Then  straightened  back  and  threw  me 
Some  twenty  feet  or  more. 
I  felt  a  sudden  crashing, 
Through  a  skylight  I  went  dashing, 
And  when  I  gained  my  senses 
I  was  on  the  basement  floor. 


340 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


Here  were  clothes-pins,  tubs,  and  blueing, 

Washboards,  mops,  and  pans  for  stewing, 

And  stacks  of  kitchen  furniture 

Where'er  my  eyes  would  roam. 

I  had  no  time  to  tarry, 

But  ran  like  "the  old  Harry," 

And  up  the  stairs  I  made  a  dash 

For  "Home,  Sweet  Home." 

But  when  I  gained  the  landing 

I  found  a  bluecoat  standing; 

My  crazy-like  appearance 

Was  suspicious,  I've  no  doubt; 

Then  he  set  my  blood  congealing 

As  he  roared,  "So!   you've  been  stealing. 

We've  been  watching  you  for  weeks,  young  man, 

And  now  we've  found  you  out." 

Then  toward  the  street  we  started, 

But  soon  we  too  got  parted. 

Some  females  formed  a  flying  wedge, 

And  away  went  Mr.  Cop. 

I  offered  no  objection 

To  his  seeming  disaffection, 

But  round  I  went  gyrating; 

I  couldn't  seem  to  stop. 

I  heard  a  shrill  voice  calling ; 
"Cash!"  on  the  air  was  falling; 
And  knowing  that  my  wife  would  be 
Wherever  that  was  found, 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

For  this  spot  I  now  went  tearing, 
For  my  safety  little  caring, 
If  I  could  only  reach  the  place 
And  find  her  safe  and  sound. 

There  I  saw  her  calmly  standing, 
While  to  her  a  clerk  was  handing 
A  measly  little  bundle; 
'Twas  the  cause  of  all  my  woe. 
Then, turning  she  smiled  sweetly, 
And  stepping  up  to  greet  me, 
Said,  "Oh,  here  you  are,  my  darling, 
Are  you  ready  now  to  go?-" 

That  she  was  sane  I  doubted. 
"Ready?"  I  loudly  shouted; 
"Well,  you  can  bet  I'm  ready." 
Then  I  grasped  her  by  the  wrist. 
"In  the  future  when  you're  dropping 
Into  this  mad-house  shopping, 
Please  remember  it's  my  busy  day 
And  scratch  me  off  your  list." 

Now  before  I'm  disappearing, 
To  all  married  men  in  hearing 
I  have  a  word  of  warning, 
And  perhaps  'twill  save  your  life. 
Get  a  football  suit  well  padded, 
Have  a  course  in  wrestling  added : 
For  you  certainly  will  need  them 
If  you're  shopping  with  your  wife. 


342 


HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 


The  Princess  Mary. 
CHARLES  MAJOJL 

From  "When  Knighthood  was  in  Flower."  Copyright, 
1898.  Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  the 
Bobbs-Merrill  Co. 

The  following  story  is  told  by  Sir  Edward  Caskoden, 
Master  of  the  Dance  to  Henry  VII 1.  The  characters  are  • 
Mary  Tudor,  sister  to  the  King;  Jane,  her  lady-in-waiting; 
and  Charles  Brandon,  who  had  just  been  invited  to  the 
court. 

Now,  at  that  time  Mary,  the  king's  sister,  was 
just  ripening  into  her  greatest  womanly  perfection. 
She  was  of  medium  height,  with  a  figure  that  Venus 
might  have  envied. 

Will  Sommers,  the  fool,  one  day  spread  through 
court  an  announcement  that  there  would  be  a  pub- 
lic exhibition  in  the  main  hall  of  the  palace  that 
evening,  when  the  Princess  Mary  would  perform 
the  somewhat  alarming,  but,  in  fact,  harmless,  oper- 
ation of  wheedling  the  king  out  of  his  ears. 

She  had  been  made  love  to  by  so  many  men,  who 
had  lost  their  senses  in  the  dazzling  rays  of  her 
thousand  perfections.  Man's  love  was  so  cheap  and 
plentiful  that  it  had  no  value  in  her  eyes,  and  it 
looked  as  if  she  would  lose  the  best  thing  in  life  by 
having  too  much  of  it. 

Mary  did  not  come  with  us  from  Westminster 
the  morning  after  the  joustings,  as  we  had  expected, 
but  followed  some  four  or  five  days  later,  and 


FOR  READING  AND   SPEAKING. 


343 


Brandon  had  fairly  settled  himself  at  court  before 
her  arrival. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  Mary  came  home  to 
Greenwich,  Brandon  asked :  " Who  and  what  on 
earth  is  this  wonderful-  Mary  I  hear  so  much  about? 
They  say  she  is  coming  home  to-day,  and  the  court 
seems  to  have  gone  mad  about  it ;  I  hear  nothing  but 
'Mary  is  coming!  Mary  is  coming!  Mary!  Mary!' 
from  morning  until  night.  They  say  Buckingham 
is  beside  himself  for  love  of  her.  He  has  a  wife 
at  home,  if  I  am  right,  and  is  old  enough  to  be  her 
father.  Is  he  not?"  I  assented;  and  Brandon 
continued:  "A  man  who  will  make  such  a  fool  of 
himself  about  a  woman  is  woefully  weak.  The  men 
of  the  court  must  be  poor  creatures." 

"Wait  until  you  see  her,"  I  answered,  "and  you 
will  be  one  of  them,  also.  I  flatter  you  by  giving 
you  one  hour  with  her  to  be  heels  over  head  in 
love.  With  an  ordinary  man  it  takes  one-sixtieth 
of  that  time ;  so  you  sec  I  pay  a  compliment  to  your 
strength  of  mind." 

"Nonsense!"  broke  in  Brandon.  "Do  you  think 
I  left  all  of  my  wits  down  in  Suffolk?  Why,  man, 
she  is  the  sister  of  the  king,  and  is  sought  by  kings 
and  emperors.  I  might  as  well  fall  in  love  with  a 
twinkling  star.  Then,  besides,  my  heart  is  not  on 
my  sleeve." 

Now  when  Mary  returned  the  whole  court  re- 
joiced, and  I  was  anxious  for  Brandon  to  meet  her, 
that  they  should  become  friends.  It  was  on  the 


344  HUMOROUS  SELECTIOXS 

second  morning  after  Mary's  arrival  at  Greenwich. 
Brandon  and  I  were  walking  in  the  palace  park 
when  we  met  Jane,  and  I  took  the  opportunity  to 
make  these,  my  two  best-loved  friends,  acquainted. 

In  a  short  time  we  came  to  a  summer-house  near 
the  marble  boat-landing,  where  we  found  the  queen 
and  some  of  her  ladies  awaiting  the  rest  of  their 
party  for  a  trip  down  the  river,  which  had  been 
planned  the  day  before. 

The  queen,  seeing  us,  sent  me  off  to  bring  the 
king.  After  I  had  gone,  she  asked  if  any  one  had 
seen  the  Princess  Mary,  and  Brandon  told  her  that 
Lady  Jane  had  said  she  was  at  the  other  side  of 
the  grounds.  Thereupon  her  Majesty  asked  Bran- 
don to  find  the  princess  and  to  say  that  she  was 
wanted. 

Brandon  started  off  and  soon  found  a  bevy  of 
girls  sitting  on  some  benches  under  a  spreading  oak, 
weaving  spring  flowers.  He  had  never  seen  the 
princess,  so  could  not  positively  know  her.  As  a  f 
matter  of  fact,  he  did  know  her,  as  soon  as  his  eyes 
rested  on  her,  for  she  could  not  be  mistaken  among 
a  thousand.  Some  stubborn  spirit  of  opposition, 
however,  prompted  him  to  pretend  ignorance. 

Coming  up  to  the  group  Brandon  took  off  his  hat, 
and  with  a  graceful  little  bow  that  let  the  curls 
falf  around  his  face,  he  asked :  "Have  I  the  honor 
to  find  the  Princess  Mary  among  these  ladies  ?" 

Mary,  whom  I  know  you  will  at  once  say  was 
thoroughly  spoiled,  without  turning  her  face  toward 
him,  replied: 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 

"Is  the  Princess  Mary  a  person  of  so  little  con- 
sequence about  the  court  that  she  is  not  known  to 
a  mighty  captain  of  the  guard?" 

He  wore  his  guardsman's  doublet,  and  she  knew 
his  rank  by  his  uniform.  She  had  not  noticed  his 
face. 

Quick  as  a  flash  came  the  answer :  "I  cannot  say 
of  what  consequence  the  Princess  Mary  is  about 
the  court;  it  is  not  my  place  to  determine  such 
matters.  I  am  sure,  however,  she  is  not  here,  for 
I  doubt  not  she  would  have  given  a  gentle  answer 
to  a  message  from  the  queen.  I  shall  continue  my 
search."  With  this,  he  determined  to  leave,  and 
the  ladies,  including  Jane,  who  was  there  and  saw 
it  all  and  told  me  of  it,  awaited  the  bolt  they  knew 
would  come,  for  they  saw  the  lightning  gathering 
in  Mary's  eyes. 

Mary  sprang  to  her  feet  with  an  angry  flush  in 
her  face,  exclaiming,  "Insolent  fellow,  I  am  the 
Princess  Mary;  if  you  have  a  message,  deliver  it 
and  be  gone."  You  may  be  sure  this  sort  of  treat- 
ment was  such  as  the  cool-headed,  daring  Brandon 
would  repay  with  usury ;  so,  turning  upon  his  heel, 
and  almost  presenting  his  back  to  Mary,  he  spoke 
to  Lady  Jane: 

"Will  your  ladyship  say  to  her  highness  that  her 
majesty,  the  queen,  awaits  her  coming  at  the  marble 
landing?" 

"No  need  to  repeat  the  message,  Jane,"  cried 
Mary;  "I  have  ears  and  can  hear  for  myself." 
Then,  turning  to  Brandon:  "If  your  insolence  will 


346  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

permit  you  to  receive  a  message  from  so  insignifi- 
cant a  person  as  the  king's  sister,  I  beg  you  to  say 
to  the  queen  that  I  shall  be  with  her  presently." 

He  did  not  turn  his  face  toward  Mary,  but  bowed 
again  to  Jane. 

"May  I  ask  your  ladyship  further  to  say  for  me 
that  if  I  have  been  guilty  of  any  discourtesy  I 
greatly  regret  it.  My  failure  to  recognize  the 
Princess  Mary  grew  out  of  my  misfortune  in  never 
having  been  allowed  to  bask  in  the  light  of  her 
countenance.  I  cannot  believe  the  fault  lies  at  my 
door,  and  hope  for  her  own  sake  that  her  highness, 
upon  second  thought,  will  realize  how  ungentle  and 
unkind  some  one  else  has  been."  And  with  a 
sweeping  courtesy  he  walked  quickly  down  the  path. 

"The  insolent  wretch !"  cried  one. 

"He  ought  to  hold  papers  on  the  pillory,"  said 
another. 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  broke  in  sensible,  fearless 
little  Jane;  "I  think  the  Lady  Mary  was  wrong. 
He  could  not  have  known  her  by  inspiration." 

"Jane  is  right,"  exclaimed  Mary,  whose  temper, 
if  short,  was  also  short-lived.  "Jane  is  right;  it 
was  what  I  deserved.  I  did  not  think  when  I  spoke, 
and  did  not  really  mean  it  as  it  sounded.  He  acted 
like  a  man,  and  looked  like  one,  too,  when  he 
defended  himself.  For  once  I  have  found  a  real 
live  man,  full  of  manliness.  I  saw  him  in  the  lists 
at  Windsor  a  week  ago,  but  the  king  said  his  name 
was  a  secret,  and  I  could  not  learn  it.  He  seemed 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


347 


to  know  you,  Jane.  Who  is  he?  Now  tell  us  all 
you  know.  The  queen  can  wait." 

And  her  majesty  waited  on  a  girl's  curiosity. 

After  Jane's  account  of  Brandon,  they  all  started 
in  a  roundabout  way  for  the  marble  landing.  In  a 
few  moments  whom  did  they  see,  coming  toward 
them  down  the  path,  but  Brandon,  who  had  deliv- 
ered his  message  and  continued  his  walk.  When  he 
saw  whom  he  was  about  to  meet,  he  quietly  turned 
in  another  direction.  The  Lady  Mary  had  seen 
him,  however,  and  told  Jane  to  run  forward  and 
bring  him  to  her.  She  soon  overtook  him  and  said : 

"Master  Brandon,  the  princess  wishes  to  see  you." 
Then,  maliciously,  "You  will  suffer  this  time.  I 
assure  you  she  is  not  used  to  such  treatment.  It 
was  glorious,  though,  to  see  you  resent  such  an 
affront.  Men  usually  smirk  and  smile  foolishly  and 
thank  her  when  she  smites  them." 

Brandon  was  disinclined  to  return. 

"I  am  not  in  her  highness's  command,"  he 
answered,  "and  do  not  care  to  go  back  for  a  repri- 
mand when  I  am  in  no  way  to  blame." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  come ;  perhaps  she  will  not 
scold  this  time,"  and  she  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm 
and  laughingly  drew  him  along.  Brandon,  of 
course,  had  to  submit  when  led  by  so  sweet  a  cap- 
tor— anybody  would.  So  fresh,  and  fair,  and 
lovable  was  Jane,  that  I  am  sure  anything  mascu- 
line must  have  given  way. 

Coming  up  to  the  princess  and  her  ladies,  who 


348  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

were  waiting,  Jane  said,  "Lady  Mary,  let  me  pre- 
sent Master  Brandon,  who,  if  he  has  offended  in 
any  way,  humbly  sues  for  pardon."  That  was  the 
one  thing  Brandon  had  no  notion  on  earth  of  doing, 
but  he  let  it  go  as  Jane  had  put  it,  and  this  was  his 
reward : 

"It  is  not  Master  Brandon  who  should  sue  for 
pardon,"  responded  the  princess,  "it  is  I  who  was 
wrong.  I  blush  for  what  I  did  and  said.  Forgive 
me,  sir,  and  let  us  start  anew."  At  this  she  stepped 
up  to  Brandon  and  offered  him  her  hand,  which  he, 
dropping  to  his  knee,  kissed  most  gallantly. 

"Your  highness,  you  can  well  afford  to  offend 
when  you  have  so  sweet  and  gracious  a  talent  for 
making  amends.  'A  wrong  acknowledged,'  as  some 
one  has  said,  'becomes  an  obligation/  "  He  looked 
straight  into  the  girl's  eyes  as  he  said  this,  and  his 
gaze  was  altogether  too  strong  for  her,  so  the  lashes 
fell.  She  flushed  and  said  with  a  smile  that  brought 
the  dimples : 

"I  thank  you ;  that  is  a  real  compliment."  Then 
laughingly:  "Much  better  than  extravagant  com- 
ments on  one's  skin,  and  eyes,  and  hair.  We  are 
going  to  the  queen  at  the  marble  landing ;  will  you 
walk  with  us,  sir?"  And  they  strolled  away 
together,  while  the  other  girls  followed  in  a  whis- 
pering, laughing  group. 

Was  there  ever  so  glorious  a  calm  after  such  a 
storm  ? 

"Then  those  mythological  compliments,"  con- 
tinued Mary,  "don't  you  dislike  them  ?" 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


"I  can't  say  that  I  ever  received  many  —  none  that 
I  recall,"  replied  Brandon,  with  a  perfectly  straight 
face,  but  with  a  smile  trying  its  best  to  break  out. 

"Oh!  you  have  not?  Well!  how  would  you  like 
to  have  somebody  always  telling  you  that  Apollo 
was  humpbacked  and  misshapen  compared  with 
you  ;  that  Endymion  would  have  covered  his  face 
had  he  but  seen  yours,  and  so  on  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  think  I  should  like  it  —  from 
some  persons,"  he  replied,  looking  ever  so  innocent. 

This  savored  of  familiarity  after  so  brief  an 
acquaintance,  and  caused  the  princess  to  glance  up 
in  slight  surprise  ;  but  only  for  the  instant,  for  his 
innocent  look  disarmed  her. 

"I  have  a  mind  to  see,"  she  returned,  laughing  and 
throwing  her  head  back,  as  she  looked  up  at  him 
out  of  the  corner  of  her  lustrous  eyes.  "But  I 
will  pay  you  a  better  compliment.  I  positively 
thank  you  for  the  rebuke.  I  do  many  things  like 
that,  for  which  I  am  always  sorry.  Oh  !  you  don't 
know  how  difficult  it  is  to  be  a  good  princess."  And 
she  shook  her  head  with  a  gathering  of  little  trouble- 
wrinkles  in  her  forehead,  as  much  as  to  say,  "There 
is  no  getting  away  from  it,  though."  Then  she 
breathed  a  soft  little  sigh  of  tribulation  as  they 
walked  on.  "But  here  is  the  queen."  Then  they 
both  laughed  and  courtesied,  and  Brandon  walked 
away. 


350  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

When  Lovely  Woman. 

PHCI:BE  GARY. 
WHEN  lovely  woman  wants  a  favor, 

And  finds,  too  late,  that  man  won't  bend, 
What  earthly  circumstance  can  save  her 
From  disappointment  in  the  end? 

The  only  way  to  bring  him  over, 

The  last  experiment  to  try, 
Whether  a  husband  or  a  lover, 

If  he  have  feeling  is — to  cry. 

Lines  by  an  Old  Fogy. 

ANONYMOUS. 
I'M  thankful  that  the  sun  and  moon 

Are  both  hung  up  so  high, 
That  no  presumptuous  hand  can  stretch 

And  pull  them  from  the  sky. 
If  they  were  not  I  have  no  doubt 

But  some  reforming  ass 
Would  recommend  to  take  them  down 

And  light  the  world  with  gas. 

De  Circus  Turkey. 

BEN  KING. 

From  "Ben  King's  Verse."     Reprinted  by  permission  of 
the  publishers,  Forbes  &  Co. 

HE'S  de  worst  I  evah  see, 
Dat  ole  turkey  up'n  de  tree: 


FOR  READING  AND  SPEAKING. 


351 


I  bin  pesta'n  him  'n'  punchin'  him  saince  mohnin'. 

I  nev',  saince  I  was  bo'n, 

See  de  way  he  do  stick  on, 
En  he  'pears  to  look  down  at  me  's  if  he  scornin'. 

He  doesn't  seem  to  'pear 

Ter  hab  a  bit  ob  fear, 
Kase  I'se  wasted  all  mah  strength  'n'  bref  upon  'im. 

It  may  be  he's  in  fun, 

But  I'll  scah  'im  wid  dis  gun, 
I'se  boun'  ter  git  'im  down  some  way,  dog  on  'im. 

I'se  fro'd  mos'  all  de  sticks 

In  de  yard,  'n'  all  de  bricks ; 
Ef  yo'  was  me,  whut  under  d'  sun  'ud  yo'  do? 

He  doesn't  seem  ter  change, 

'N'  'pears  ter  act  so  strange, 
I  d'clar  he  mus'  be  pestah'd  wid  a  hoodoo. 

I  tale  yo'  hit's  er  fac', 

I  nearly  broke  mah  back 
Er  histin'  shoes  'n'  brickbats  up  dar  to  'im. 

Ton  dis  Tanksgibbin'   day, 

I  hate  ter  shoot,  but  say — 
I  b'leeve  a  gun's  de  only  thing'll  do  'im ! 

I  'low  I'll  make  'im  think 

He  kain't  gib  me  de  wink 
An'  sait  upon  dat  limb  en  be  secuah. 

Biff!    Bang!  'I'll  make  'im  sing; 

Mah  goodness,  watch  'im  swing! 
W'y,  he's  a  reg'lah  circus  turkey,  suah. 


352  HUMOROUS  SELECTIONS 

Hi  see  de  hull  thing  now — 

Dat  Rasmus  boy,  I  'low, 
Has  done  gone  tied  'is  feet  up  dar  wid  strings. 

No  wondah  dat  he  tried 

Ter  come  off;    he  was  tied, 
'N'  all  what  he  could  do  was  flap  'is  wings. 

Come  hyar,  yo'  Rasmus,  quick,  sah ! 

I'se  min'  ter  use  dis  stick,  sah ! 
Come  hyar,  from  ovar  dar,  from  wliar  yo'  stood. 

I  'low  I  ought  to  lay  yo' 

Down  on  dat  groun'  en  flay  yo'; 
I'se  tempted  mos'  ter  use  a  stick  o'  wood. 

Yo'  kain't  go  to  de  meetin', 

An'  w'en  it  comes  ter  eatin', 
Yo'  mudder  sais  yo'  kain't  come  to  de  table. 

I  bet  you'll  sing  er  tune, 

Kase  all  dis  aftahnoon 
We's  'cided  dat  we'll  lock  yo'  in  de  stable. 

Yo'  kain't  hab  none  de  white  meat, 

An'  yo'  kain't  hab  none  de  brown  meat, 
An'  yo'  jes'  hearn  whut  yer  po'  ole  mudder  sade; 

Yo'  kain't  hab  none  de  stuffin', 

Er  de  cranber'  sauce  er  nuffin', 
An'  'cisely  at  six  o'clock  yo'  go  ter  baid. 


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